


Noise (Rebirth)

by natcat5



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Crime, Family, Gen, Immortality, Organized Crime, Violence, confusing timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:16:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was once a boy in England. There was once a boy in China. Through a series of interesting events they both became immortal. That made killing each other so much harder. </p>
<p>It starts in 1937. Or does it start in 1928? Either way, the deadly game between Arthur and Yao that spanned from England to China, America to Japan, and the frozen tundra of Russia is about to come to a head. Arthur doesn't forgive. Yao doesn’t forget. Ivan won’t back down. Immortality and crime shouldn’t mix, and the results will be explosive. </p>
<p>(baccano! inspired AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Is it getting better? Or do you feel the same?

**Author's Note:**

> Yes hello, reposting the re-edited, re-written version of my baby.   
> I am probably going to end up deleting the old version off of FFnet because I really don't want people going to read that to know what happens next, and then getting confused when I change stuff in this version.   
> This is the good version.

_“ _Is it getting better?_ **Or do you feel the same?"**_

**_-_** One,  **U2 (and Mary J. Blige)**

**\- -**

There was an aura of mystery surrounding Arthur Kirkland.

The man was an anomaly. Nobody knew much about him other than that he had appeared practically out of nowhere a few years ago and taken the business world by storm. A charming young man with a pleasant demeanor and an old-fashioned, gentleman like quality to him that had most of London's women talking. He wasn't particularly handsome, but neither could he be called ugly. While his eyebrows might have been in need of some tweezing, the mossy green eyes that lay underneath them were, so the women said, _dazzling._

And it wasn't just the women who were talking. Arthur Kirkland was the topic of discussion for most of the rich businessmen in England. A young man, a boy really, who had appeared suddenly and restarted the infamous Kirkland business, once the most powerful corporation in all of Great Britain. In its glory days during World War Two and the times after, the Kirkland company had had a hand in every major business in Western Europe and with influence bleeding into the East. The company had begun experiencing trouble in the eighties and had dwindled out of existence by the late 90s.

But now, more than ten years later, the Kirklands had bounced back, returning to the market, re-buying shares and businesses, and eliminating competition with frightening speed. It was, without a doubt, Arthur's doing. Despite not looking a day over twenty-five, the young man was indisputably a skilled businessman.

Regardless, he was an absolute mystery. Where he got the money and influence to restart the extinguished company was a major topic of discussion. The boy had no parents, they apparently having been killed in some accident a long time ago. His only 'family' appeared to be the secretary that he kept by his side at all times. His parents clearly hadn't been major figures in any high-money circles, as their deaths hadn't caused a stir, and the origins of his funding were shrouded in secrecy. In fact, next to nothing was known about Kirkland's parents, or his past.

It was assumed that Arthur Kirkland was, of course, related to the original Kirklands. But the Kirkland family had been shrouded in mystery since the 1940s. The head of the company, from the time after World War Two onwards, had never revealed themselves to the public. 'Mr. Kirkland' had been the name of every leader of the Kirkland Corporation for the past six decades. Arthur was the first time the public had been able to put a name to the face in almost seventy years.

So of course, everyone was  _very_ interested in him.

But while Arthur was not a total recluse like his predecessors, he didn't go out much. He didn't walk down the street, or go out shopping, or hold press conferences, or charity balls, and attended an event or business dance once in a blue moon. Just enough to let the public know he was still alive but not enough to let them know very much about him.

So, of course, the rumours about him swirled around mercilessly.

Who were his parents? How had he achieved such a high-ranking position so young? Where had he come from? Where was he  _going?_

Arthur Kirkland was a man to be admired, respected, and watched, that was for certain.

-       -

 

**Greater Toronto Area, Canada- February 2011**

It was calm.

A thick blanket of snow covered everything, from the park benches, to the leafless trees, to the large stretches of grass around the pond. All traces of the previous night’s storm had passed, leaving a blue, sunny sky, and an eerie stillness to the world.

Matthew shivered, rubbing his mittened hands together. Though the sky was bright, the temperature was far below zero, and his cheeks and nose were red with cold. He had just finished clearing the frozen pond of snow, ensuring it was ready before his kids arrived for practice. The activity had kept him warm, but now, as he sat on a bench waiting for his students to arrive, the biting cold was nipping mercilessly at his body.

Still rubbing his hands together, Matthew sighed heavily, watching his breath ghost and mist in the air. He followed the traces of warmth until they disappeared entirely, and then tilted his head back, looking up at the sky.

A grin found it’s way onto his face as he relished in the surreal calmness that wasn’t usually associated with the harsh Canadian winter. The cold aside, the stillness, the serenity of a world blanketed in snow, and the all encompassing peace were elements he cherished dearly. It was days like these, with the sky bright and beautiful, and a perpetual tranquility in the air, that Matthew Williams really loved being Canadian.

"Coach Matthew!"

Matthew lowered his gaze and turned, pushing his glasses farther up his nose and lessening his wide grin to a gentler smile.

"Hello there, Timothy," he said, waving cheerfully. "You're here early!"

A young boy of about 10 or so beamed at Matthew, a gap-toothed grin faltering as he almost fell over under the weight of the hockey equipment he was carrying.

"I wanted to get extra practice in!" he explained breathlessly, "So I asked Femke to drop me off early!"

Matthew peered over the boy's shoulder, down the path that led through the park to the small frozen pond, and at the woman currently making her way towards them. Fairhaired and pretty, though currently wrapped head to toe in winter garments with a strained look that spoke volumes of how she felt about the weather.

Matthew smiled. It was sweet that Femke took time out of her day to bring the boy to practice when his parents were at work. Femke put all her heart into her volunteering with the underprivileged youth in the community, and Matthew respected her immensely. It was too bad that he couldn’t get the Belgian woman to realize that he was  _twenty-one_ and  _not_ available for dating her older brother, who was approaching his thirties.

Though he had to wonder, did his age really count considering how long he had been twenty-one?

"Well it's a good thing I always come early, eh?" chuckled Matthew as he rose from the bench and stretched, shivering slightly as his sweater lifted up and a cool breeze managed to blow up it. He really should have invested in a jacket, though he supposed a part of him was just curious as to whether or not he could actually freeze to death.

He definitely couldn't burn to death, but maybe freezing...?

"I wanted to work on my slapshot," said Timothy, staggering over to the bench and putting down his equipment before sitting down and unzipping the large hockey bag. "I want to surprise the others when they come! I want to be super awesome! So awesome that even Freddie can't stop my shot!"

The sincere, blindingly enthusiastic grin that Timothy turned towards him caused something to pang painfully in Matthew’s chest, and the vision of the boy in front of him wavered and was replaced with the image of another boy. A young, blue-eyed, smiling boy with a stubborn cowlick and a determined, energetic expression on his face.

" _I'll be ya hero, Mattie! So don't worry, we'll stick t'gether!"_

" _Don't cry! Even if we're gettin’ a new brother, you'll still be my awesome twin!"_

" _Arthur's so mean to us! It's 'cause we're younger ain't it! We're not_ that  _much younger...Hmph. Well, who cares ‘bout smelly ol’ Arthur anyways."_

" _Y'know Mattie…Arthur ain't so bad! He's actually really nice, an' lookit the toy soldier he gave me!"_

" _Wha-Matt? Didn't see you there! Hey, I gotta go. Arthur and I are going out for awhile. Just…y'know. Have fun here, alright?"_

" _I can't talk right now. Something's up with Arthur…I need to figure out…"_

" _Don't you understand, Matt? We need to do this for Arthur…he's our brother! You want to just leave him by himself?"_

" _You have to get stronger, Matt! How are you supposed to help Arthur if you can't even shoot someone?"_

" _Arthur's the most important person to me…the most important…"_

" _I have to leave…Mattie…I'm leaving…I just…I hate him…I_ hate _him…"_

" _Goodbye...I'm sorry…I wasn't a good hero in the end, was I?"_

"Coach Matthew?"

Matthew blinked rapidly, glancing down at Timothy, who was looking at him with a confused and worried expression. The blonde took off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes and cleaning the lenses with the inside of his collar.

"Sorry Timothy, I guess I'm a bit tired," laughed the young coach, smiling widely at his student, whose worried look melted away. "Get your gear on and we'll start alright?" Timothy nodded excitedly and kicked off his boots, causing them to thud into the snow. He pulled his skates out of his bag and began tugging them on, a slight frown on his face as he tried to untangle the laces.

The fond smile that Matthew gave the young boy didn’t reach his eyes, and he turned away after a few seconds, once again watching his breath ghost in the cold January air.

_What a stupid time to be thinking of that idiot_ , thought the blonde somewhat bitterly, shivering and tucking his hands into his pockets.

_He's dead anyways. What do I care?_

_\- -_

**Australian Outback- February 2011**

It was hot.

The sun was blistering, causing the dry, flat landscape to waver and shift in the image of a mirage, waves of heat seeming to cause the very air to bend. The sky was unhelpful, not a single cloud covering the hateful star and leaving anything on the earth below completely helpless to its merciless rays.

The man rubbed at the bridge of his nose, shifting the bandage he still wore out of habit. Adjusting the sunhat so carefully positioned on his head, he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and raised his rifle, peering into the scope with one eye shut and tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

The Outback. A hotbed for death in the most excruciating ways possible. It was kind of hilarious, the vast amount of ways you could meet your end out here. Poisonous snakes, scorpions, spiders, dangerous beasts, wolverines, and dingoes. The stretches of land that went for miles and miles without any water in sight. No edible trees, grass, or anything that could sustain life. It was a wonder that Australian settlers had been able to survive a month out here, let along long enough to set up an entire country.

_But that's the beauty of us, ain't it?_ Thought the Australian with a grin.  _Aussies can't be beat. Not a single bloke on this earth that can stand up to us!_

He loved it. He loved the thrill of it. The thrill of being close to death with every move he made. Challenging death, challenging nature, challenging everything that had daunted humanity since the beginning of time; that was Joey Sanders's purpose in life. Named after a baby kangaroo, his Mum used to say that he must have been born one and been switched at birth. Joey had always considered it a compliment. He was an animal of the Outback and damned proud of it. Spitting in the face of danger was his life's calling, and hell if he gave a damn about the million ways you could die out here.

_Of course,_ thought Joey with a small frown,  _the fun gets taken out of it a bit when you really_ can't  _die…_

The man's thoughts were interrupted as he spotted something in the scope, and he automatically stiffened, tightening his hold on the gun and leaning in slightly. A grin spread across his face as he both saw and heard his quarry.

The distinctive hum of a jeep, of something that didn't belong, of an unwanted factor in Joey Sanders's Outback. A blemish, a scar, a completely unwanted entity in  _his_ wilderness. These businessmen coming to scout areas for development, or rich assholes wanting to do some illegal hunting in their spare time. He absolutely despised them. Despised them for disrespecting his Outback so flagrantly.

It was just a stroke of luck that killing the  _bastard_ was his actual job. Bonus was that he'd enjoy it.

Joey watched the jeep come closer in his sights, narrowing his eyes in disgust at the three well-dressed men sitting it.

_Who the hell wears a golf shirt in the fucking Outback? _Honestly.__

Luck was on the Aussie's side. The men were driving in a direction that was taking them closer to the hilltop he was crouched on top of. He wouldn't have to run very far. Joey wasn't a fan of running. You missed too much if you went rushing about everywhere. He really wished that he didn't have to always attack from so bloody far away; he much preferred hand-to-hand combat. That way, it was more personal, and you could  _see_ the person you were beating the shit out of.

It let both of you know that you were still human. Somewhere deep down, at least.

_Closer…closer…._

Joey licked his lips again, shifting the rifle to the side slightly and waiting for the jeep to cross directly into his path, finger resting impatiently on the trigger.

_Closer….._

_There!_

Two shots rang out, the noise echoing around the barren land, and almost instantaneously, the jeep collapsed on the right side and began spinning out of control.

Joey grinned, putting down the rifle and standing up, picking up two metal gauntlets from the ground and leaping over the rock he had been crouched behind, sliding down the hillside to where the jeep collapsed onto its side.

He hated fighting from far away. Detested it actually. So he did the only conceivable thing. Shot out their tires so he could take the fight to them.

Joey pulled on his gauntlets as he stalked across the plains, taking his time and breathing in the dusty Australian air. The targets were having trouble freeing themselves from the wreckage, and one was fumbling with a gun at his hip.

_That could be problematic…_ thought Joey,  _If they shoot me, that might give them a bit of time to run away…ah, well. Running sucks, but hunts are always exciting._

Joey Sanders was an animal of the outback, a man who laughed in the face of death.

_The principle is good,_ he thought to himself, smiling down the barrel of the gun with a distinctly demonic look.

_Even if death isn't necessarily an option._

_\- -_

**Hyderabad, India – March 2011**

“Faster child, you won’t remove any heads with that technique!”

He watched her face twist into a snarl as she lunged forward, and sidestepped the attack quickly. The tip of her sword almost sliced open his cheek, and he had to fight to stop himself from whistling appreciatively.

It’s not that he didn’t get good sword fighters, it’s that very rarely did he get girls who could almost match him blow to blow after only three sessions. This girl was countering every hit with minimal strain. She was fast, and kept attempting short stabs towards him. There was a fury in her fighting, and Rajni could appreciate and understand it, even if it did create glaring weaknesses in her form.

“You are trying to hard, my love,” he noted as he sidestepped another one of her blows, “The art of swordfighting is not, in fact, all in the sword. I’ve said this before, haven’t I?”

He had. He has always strongly emphasized the importance of form and footwork in all of his classes, to all of his students. If there was anything he had learned in his many, _many_ years it was that the difference in the way you could move your feet could be the deciding factor in any type of battle. Swordfight. Knifefight. Gunfight. Bombfight. And especially hand-to-hand.

The girl evidently hadn’t internalized this yet, however, and lunged at him again, snarling as she stabbed forward with her blade. Her expression was a mask of desperation and fury, made more intense by the burn scars marring her face. This was the look of someone desperate to lash out; desperate to hurt someone the way they themselves had been hurt.

Again, it was understandable. And Rajni did pity her, and what she, and all the other girls had gone through. Unfortunately, such an absolute lack of form and control could only result in defeat, and he clucked his tongue in disapproval, sidestepping easily.

“Your form is atrocious!” he admonished, parrying her next blow with a shake of his head and continuing to gently rebuff her in between ducks and blocks, “Your feet are, no love, the other way- no I said- _oh for heaven’s-,”_

Rajni whacked the girl’s rapier out of her hand with an easy flick of his wrist, stepping into her side and knocking her off balance completely. Her eyes widened as she tumbled onto the mat-covered floor, her expression darkening into one of shame and suppressed rage as she pushed herself up into a sitting position.

There was a chorus of sound from the other girls watching from against the wall, some words of encouragement, some quietly mocking, some noises of admiration at how swiftly Rajni had taken her down. The man shot them all a sharp glare, raising his blade so that the tip of it was pointed in their direction until their words faded away into silence.

“None of you have done any better, so save your comments,” he said sternly, making a tsking sound with his tongue before turning his attention back to the girl he’d defeated, who now knelt in front of him with her head bowed.

“And you,” he began, lowering his arm, his tone still stern, “You need to utilize that anger and hate in a more constructive manner. You’ll get nowhere stabbing blindly with nothing fueling you but your fury. _Technique_ is needed as well. And control. You choose to ignore both. That is why you fail.”

The girl flinched, and he saw her hands clench into the cloth of her pants. Her shoulders shook slightly, and he wondered whether she was holding in sobs or holding in the desire to leap to her feet and stab him.

Rajni sighed, turning away from her to once again face the line of girls against the wall. There were about nine of them, all new recruits. Girls whose injuries, traumas, and the like had healed enough for them to begin training. Girls from across India, rescued from abusive family, spouses, and employers by Rajni’s organization, and offered the chance to strike back at the society that had allowed them to go through so much pain and injustice. Not all of them took the offer. And many were too damaged to even be considered. But a decent number took the hand he extended to them, and in the last ten years or so, he’d developed a decent network of saboteurs, spies, and assassins. Vengeful girls were fast learners, and had an incomparable tendency for ruthlessness.

But many of them started here. To angry to think straight. To hurt to use common sense. And Rajni understood that. There was a moment in his life where he too had been overwhelmed by the injustices wrought upon him, where he’d wanting nothing more than to scream and rage at his family for failing him so badly. To attack the man who he had been sold to, and to act through nothing but anger.

But common sense had won out, and he had achieved much more by training, becoming smarter, and using his position to his advantage. He never would have been where he was now, in a position powerful enough to allow him to directly effect change in his country, if he had not remained with the Kirklands for all of those long years.

Rajni smiled grimly, and summoned the next girl forward with a flick of his rapier.

He was free from them now, and he would use all he had learned in that time to ensure that the oppressed had the opportunity to fight back.

\--

**Dublin, Ireland – March 2011**

"So tell me, were you lads in town for St. Pattie’s Day? Or are you just visiting?"

The men sitting around the table looked up, casting glances at each other, before grinning up at the pretty waitress.

"Nah, bird," said a particularly roguish looking one, winking broadly. "We came in town simply ta see such a sweet lass as yourself."

There were hoots from the other men at his casual use of the less-then-respectful term, but the girl just giggled coyly, as if not understanding. The waitress took their drinks off of the serving tray and placed it before each of the men, smiling in the face of their lusty, mocking stares. Her long, dark brown pigtails drooped over her overly exposed chest, while her skirt rode up considerably as she bent over. There were several appreciative whistles, and the girl had to fight to keep the oblivious, ditsy look on her face.

_Idiots…such idiots…_

"So, do you know what you gentlemen would like to order yet?" she asked cheerfully, pulling out a notebook that had been conveniently situated between her breasts, and taking a pencil out of the waistband of her skirt, pulling up her shirt far more than necessary to reach it. Aware of their lusty stares, the girl had to fight to stop from rolling her eyes or sighing.

_Gentlemen…_ puh- _lease. This is insulting. Why do I do this again?_

"Tell me, birdie," said the roguish one, leaning in close and beckoning her closer with his finger. She complied, keeping her eyes as wide and as empty as possible. "What say you and me go find a room somewhere, just the two of us?" he asked, grinning.

_Oh yeah._

The young woman straightened up, blinking, as if confused, before smiling widely. "Sure! That sounds great! Let me just tell my boss!"

There were catcalls and jostling from the other men at the table, as well as jealous stares. The man who had 'scored' looked smug, leaning back in his chair and openly staring at the waitress's ass. The smile on said waitress’s face never faltered, only curled into something a little less innocent and ditsy as her eyes darkened.

She relaxed only when she had entered the back room, nodding a greeting to the other occupant. A fellow employee who raised an eyebrow as she strode in.

"Leaving again, Angelique?" asked the large African man sitting in a chair, setting his coffee to the side as he watched the young woman who had just entered untie her apron and place down her serving tray. "I don't understand why you do this. It's not like you don't make enough money here."

Angelique hummed to herself, digging into a small knapsack on the floor and pulling out several long daggers.

_Because…_

"It's fun!" she said cheerfully, tucking the knives into various hidden crevices on her body, and ending with placing two red bowties on each of her ponytails, both with a vial of liquid attached to back of them. "And I hate men."

"You don't hate me," grumbled the man, shaking his head disapprovingly as he picked up his mug and took a sip of his drink.

"I hate  _dirty_ men," corrected the dark-skinned girl, adjusting her skirt. "And they're just.. . _so easy…_ y'know? It's like a power trip. They're so easy to get rid of…and…and I'm keeping the streets safe. Keeping other girls safe," she said firmly, pausing with her hand on the doorknob.

"If you say so, Angel," mumbled the large man, adjusting his glasses and averting his gaze, turning a blind eye as he had done many times before.

Angelique nodded in appreciation for his continued silence, and then pushed the door open, ditsy smile back in place as she met the gaze of her quarry.

She never used to find such a joy in killing, no matter the justification. But years and years of murdering for other people, of being chained down by someone else’s rules, of being forced to subject herself to horrific situations to further _his_ goals, had left her with a bitter taste in her mouth she couldn’t seem to get rid of. As well as a desire to use her newfound freedom to do what she, and she alone wished to do.

She would never admit out loud that she occasionally replaced the faces of the men she killed with _his_ face in her mind, and that her actions were less for keeping the streets safe and more for releasing pent up frustration.

_It's so easy…they never suspect a thing…_ _mused Angelique, rocking back and forth on her heels as she watched her prey got to his feet and stride towards her._

_And it's so easy…it's_ fun.

\- -

**Cavendish, England – April 2011**

"Well, here we are. It's not much, but it's home."

Xiang's eyes flickered around the room. His gaze ghosted over the old-fashioned wooden furniture, the bright floral wallpaper, and all visible escape routes, whilst maintaining his outwards appearance of complete apathy.

"It's nice," affirmed the Chinese teenager in his standard monotone. Gaze flicking upwards, he noticed the man's somewhat irritated expression at his lack of excitement and added: "And warm. It seems very homey."

The man's mouth quirked upwards and he sighed. "Enjoy that stoic act while you can, Xiang," he warned, glaring at him, "You'll find it impossible to maintain that façade around Heidi."

Xiang merely blinked in response, tilting his head in a confused manner. The entire situation honestly did confuse him. Vash was the man's name, and he lived with his younger sister in a small town in England. It was a very secluded place, surrounded by forests and the like, and the people seemed very…different than what he was used to.

Liars. Backstabbers. Murderers. Even in recent years, when he had no longer been working for England, his life had been filled with these. London wasn't a nice place, especially if you were a slender Asian boy who could pass for twelve on a bad day, and barely looked sixteen on a good day. Considering he had almost been seventeen when he had…stopped, it was a rather infuriating situation to be in. Especially when people constantly undermined him or treated him like he was as delicate as a flower because he was slim and young-looking.

If they knew he had lived for decades and had grown up as a master saboteur, would they still treat him as vulnerable jailbait?

"Heidi's at school right now," continued Vash, walking into the house and putting his coat on a stand near the door. "She's quite excited to meet you. It seems that she has always wanted a brother closer to her own age..."

_What's so great about brothers?_ Thought Xiang as he slowly followed the man into the house, carrying his light suitcase easily.  _Mine never did me any good._

"I'll show you to your room. You can put your bag down and…rest…if you're tired…I could show you around the house if you really wanted me to..." mumbled Vash, averting his gaze and cheeks reddening, as if being charitable embarrassed him. The teenager maintained his bored expression, walking past the man towards the corridor he assumed led to his temporary living arrangements.

Xiang felt the slightest twinge of guilt as he heard Vash grumble behind him, but really, what was there to be guilty for? No use pretending with the man. All his generosity and supposed kindness -because he wasn't, and never would be, convinced that it was genuine- wouldn't be able to make him normal.

He wasn't fourteen like they had told him at the orphanage. He hadn't been fourteen for over seventy years. He would never look older than sixteen, never would  _be_ older than sixteen, and would never stay in one place for longer than two years.

_What a curse…_

Xiang closed his eyes, ignoring Vash's mumbling attempts to ask him if he needed anything.

_Master was wrong…there is a punishment for our sins…_

_\- -_

**Yanaka-Tokyo, Japan, May 2011**

The cherry blossoms were in bloom.

The young man looked up at them, blinking his large, dark brown eyes against the sunlight that was trickling from between the branches and the blossoms. The  _sakura_ were enchanting in the dying light, the hues of pink shifting between darker and lighter shades, tingeing with red and orange to reflect the colours of the setting sun. Even the way the blossoms moved in the cool evening breeze was captivating. The way they swayed in the light draft was like dancing. The entire branch moving as one, but the blossoms moving as a thousand separate entities, each with their own separate motion, but all coming together to give a beautiful performance. A beautiful shifting of colours and dappling beauty.

He had missed the  _sakura._ Though they grew in China, they never grew with quite the… _magic_ that they did in his native land.

Sighing, the young man dropped his gaze. He was not here to idle his time away watching cherry blossoms, as much as he would like to. As he turned away from the tree, he had a strong urge to turn back and bow to it, feeling like it had performed an act of great charity by dancing so freely in front of him, and that it deserved the proper respect and appreciation in response. However, he continued forward, and did not turn. Because while he loved the _sakura_ and thought that giving respect when it was due was very important, Kiku Honda valued diligence above all else.

And right now, he had a job to do.

The young Japanese man continued walking down the empty street, keeping his gaze fixed solely ahead and not on the  _sakura_ trees that swayed and danced along the side of it. He kept his eyes away from the small, homely houses, preferring to avoid the feeling of disgust that was sure to arise at the sight of them.

Kiku had developed many quirks over the 100 years or so that he had been alive. Most of them stemmed from his more…unconventional upbringing in Tokyo during the early 20th century. A few more came from his deep nationalism and sense of spiritual pride with his home country. Others came from his personal affiliation with tradition. He was an old-fashioned man who disliked change and wrinkled his nose at the younger generation. He quite detested westernization and remembered wistfully the time before World War II. Before the military occupation of Japan which had brought about the more drastic changes.

Kiku sighed and adjusted the cuffs on his sleeves, straightening the black tie that fit so constrictively around his neck. He couldn't wait to return home. There, at least, he was free to wear his  _yukata_ without being accused of being old-fashioned.

The young man's stiff, measured walk brought him to the end of the street, where he regretfully brought his gaze up to look at the house that sat there.

It was a nicer house, with a beautiful courtyard filled with lush grass and a garden of lilies. Kiku raised an eyebrow at the peeling paint and the splintering at the bottom of the door but walked forward down the path with an impassive expression on his face. While it might be his personal opinion that not having your home completely presentable at all times dishonoured your ancestors, he had come to recognize over the years, that it was no longer the opinion of many others.

_I feel like such an old man,_ thought Kiku with a sigh as he knocked on the door.  _It's almost been a century now...really much too long a time to have lived…It is not within the capacity of the human spirit to bear witness to such heart-breaking change…_

As he heard steps from inside the house, notifying him that the occupant had heard him, Kiku's gaze traveled upwards once more to the  _sakura_ trees that stood nearby, still swaying and dancing in the breeze.

_At least,_ thought Kiku with a small smile,  _the cherry blossoms still bloom with beauty and honour._

\- -

**Seoul, South Korea, June 2011**

The young man leaned against the wall, sitting with his knees up and his fingers drumming a rhythm on his thighs. His head swayed from side to side as he sang along to the song blasting from his headphones, a grin on his lips as he tapped his feet along to the catchy beat.

"Shawty, shawty shawty,  _Nuni busyeo busyeo busyeo. Sumi makhyeo makhyeo makhyeo, naega michyeo michyeo_ baby _…"_

He broke off into humming as the lyrics of the next verse escaped his memory, still swaying and tapping happily. Beyond the music from his iPod, he could hear the distinct sounds of the busy city. The cars rushing to and fro, horns honking. The constant hum of talking as people walked by on the crowded sidewalks, cell phones held to their ears or Blackberries in hand. The distinctive titter of schoolgirls who had found the time to go shopping, cooing over some actor or some American singer. They walked like they were skipping, bouncing off the ground. The businessmen walking by with cumbersome briefcases had heavier, more hurried steps. Then the elderly, who walked at a slow, lolling pace. They were probably shaking their heads as they walked, exasperated by the carefree nature of the younger generation and wondering where the respect had gone.

The sounds of the city fit, and yet didn't fit, into the song that was still blasting in his ears, the electronic beat matching the mechanic honking of cars and the crash of machinery at a nearby construction site. However, the sounds that the city made were so distinct, so alive and vibrant with such a personal connection, that it was hard to find any type of track that would match completely.

Despite this, he smiled and continued to sway back and forth, tapping his feet and humming along, fingers drumming faster and faster, no longer following the beat of the song, but the beat of the city he loved.

"Alright man, break time's over. Time to get up and get working!"

The youth's eyes snapped open, the connection interrupted by the demanding voice that came booming from above him. He pulled one headphone away from his ear and looked up with a pout, making wide eyes at the teenager standing over him.

"But  _Hyung…_ " he whined, "I've been working all day! I'm tired!"

"Get up, lazy," commanded the other teen with a stern look, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. "You agreed to help, so help! You've been on break for forever!" The other youth made a noise of protest as his friend pulled him to his feet, causing the headphones to slide off his head and around his neck and cutting his connection with the music all together. The sounds of the city reverberated in his ears, and he stood completely still for a moment, surrounded by the blanket of familiar noise and movement.

It was so, so different now, the way cities sounded. They had always been loud, always been a constant cacophony of crashing sounds, but Seoul in 2011 seemed to be alive in a way it never had been before. He had seen the city at its worst, seen Korea at its worst, and it never ceased to amaze him, how far they’d come. How beautiful the sounds that surrounded him were. How different they were from the sounds of death and destruction that had enveloped the Korea of his childhood.

_It’s thanks to China-Aniki that I’m still alive to see Korea like this now,_ thought the youth, his eyes shining as he remembered his brother fondly, _I’ll have to remember to thank him again when I see him!_

_…Whenever that is…_

"Come on, Yong Soo," said the other teen, breaking Yong Soo out of his thoughts as he turned and began walking towards the truck parked by the sidewalk, "We've got a lot of stuff to move in!"

Yong Soo blinked lethargically, before giving his head a quick shake and grinning, adjusting the headphones around his neck and, for the time being, dismissing thoughts of his brother and past life.

"You got it, _da ze_ ~!" he exclaimed, pumping a fist into the air. "Helping friends move into new apartments totally originated from me!"

\- -

**Hanoi, Vietnam, August 2011**

She was, and would perpetually be, surrounded by useless people. It was a fact that she had come to accept quite some time ago and a fact that she was reminded of as she watched the quivering underling cower in front of her. He wasn't meeting her dark, steely gaze, hadn't even looked up from the floor once since being shoved in here. He was afraid, terrified, because he was useless.

She hated useless people.

Tapping her nails against the rice paddle that lay across her lap, the young woman waited for the man to explain himself, plead for forgiveness, whatever he felt would save his skin. She had the appearance of a fairly patient woman, though she was actually quite quick-tempered, and she preferred explanations and results to be yielded quickly and without pause. Waiting for the man in front of her to grow some balls was not something she had the tolerance for.

"State your business here," she commanded, shifting in the soft leather seat and folding one stocking-covered leg over the other, still tapping her nails against her rice paddle. "Or would you rather stay silent and allow me to get straight to the punishment?"

The man jerked as if electrocuted and slowly lifted his head, revealing a dirty, blood-smeared face and twitchy eyes that flickered from side to side as if searching for an escape route. The woman stifled a sigh as she saw how blood-shot his eyes were. As a rule, she tried to avoid having her subordinates on drugs. It was one thing to trade and sell them; it was another thing entirely to be a slave to them. She preferred to be the one controlling the drugs, not having the drugs control her, and she expected the same of anyone working under her jurisdiction.

Yet another example of the uselessness of other people.

"I-I am sorry,  _ma…"_ stammered the man, entire body shaking as he forced himself to meet her gaze. "M-my entire stock w-was confiscated…"

The woman's eyes widened and she sat up in her chair, ceasing her drumming on the rice paddle.

"By the police?" she asked sharply, eyes narrowing. The man's shaking increased and he once again lowered his head, nodding slowly.

The Vietnamese woman forced herself to relax, un-tensing her body and resuming the tapping of her nails against the rice paddle. She placed her elbow on the arm of the chair, leaning her cheek against her fist with an exasperated expression on her face.

"Yet…you managed to get away," she drawled, masking the irritation in her voice with an apathetic tone.

"Y-Yes,  _ma!_ " he exclaimed, looking up as hope and pride coloured his voice for the first time. "I did not allow them to capture me, and I-,"

"Fool."

The man faltered, hopeful look falling away as the  _ma_ of the organization wrapped her hand around the handle of her rice paddle and gave him her coldest glare, the normal deep brown gaze appearing coal black.

" _M-ma?"_

"What right did you have to escape?" she asked harshly. "You lost your stock to the police. You notified them to drug trade in that area, as well as costing us thousands of dollars. You increased the chances of other operatives being discovered, and then you had the audacity to come running back here. If you had been captured, you could have at least passed it off as if you were working alone, but by returning here, possibly trailed, you have endangered us all."

Not completely true. If the man had stayed with the police he might have been persuaded to reveal certain locations and trade sites to them. No, it was better that he had returned so that she could…take  _care_ of him. But she refused to offer him any praise for his actions, instead making it quite clear that severe consequences were about to occur.

The man shook, dread falling upon him as he saw the oh-so-familiar merciless look in the woman's eyes.

Because if there was one thing Linh Hoang was known for, it was her lack of forgiveness.

\- -

**Hadong-Hanoi, Vietnam- August 2011**

He considered 'sadist' to be too crude a word.

It didn't quite capture the… _beauty_ of his condition. It was fine to simply say, 'that man enjoys other people's pain', but it was more fitting to say, 'that man revels in seeing the blood of others spilled. The shades of red that glitter in the dying light when a drop falls. The dark surface of a growing pool. The numerous masks of agony, sadness, surprise, and horror that can be worn by the dead and dying. They all fascinate him and fill him with glee. He finds death captivating and torture an art, and nothing makes him smile more than the first cry of pain and the first drop of blood when the first cut is delivered.'

'Sadist' did not quite encapsulate all that he was.

Humming to himself, he walked through the small, slightly slum-like neighbourhood of Hanoi. The area wasn't too bad off, with the buildings and houses in decent condition and no sign of shady characters lurking around corners. Whether that was always the case or simply because of his presence there, he wasn't sure.

Really, he was probably thinking too highly of himself if he thought that it was simply his presence that was keeping the thugs away. In reality, it was most likely the presence of the entire organization. Ha Dong was one of the most used neighbourhoods and the one most firmly under Linh's control.

He grinned, glasses flashing in the sunlight.

_How many years has it been?_ He wondered to himself, hands in the pockets of his expensive suit, Italian shoes clicking against the pavement.  _Decades…decades...It’s been decades!_

The grin widened, and the man gave a little skip as he walked, laughing out loud. He stood out, from his expensive suit, to the subtle features that distinguished him as  _not_ Vietnamese (he was from Thailand, though he had not been there in years), to the perpetual smile and aura of giddiness that came from him. If his circumstances were different, he would be concerned about walking through a deserted neighbourhood by himself.

But his circumstances were what they were, and he had nothing to fear.

He loved life.

And he especially loved that his life wouldn't end.

The man's jaunty walk and the happy tune he was whistling faded as something began vibrating in his pocket. Pausing, he tilted his head to the side and reached down, pulling a thin cell phone out of his pocket. The man held it in front of his face, peering at the characters on the screen with a surprised expression before grinning and flipping the device open.

"Hello,  _Phi Sao!"_ he chirped happily, "You don't often call me, ana~. Did you need something?" The man resumed humming as he held the phone to his ear and listened to the stern, tension-filled voice on the other end. A shocked expression flashed across his face, and he made a soft 'tutting' sound.

"Oh dear, ana~. The whole stock? That's horrible. So you want me to take care of it?"

The man's grin faded into a softer, more sinister smile as his contact continued explaining, his smile growing in size and intensity with each word..

"I see, ana~. Don't worry  _Phi Sao_ , Your awesome little brother Tai will take care of everything," he purred, his voice silky and reassuring. "I'll get your precious refined opium back from the police. No worries, ana~. And in return…"

Tai began walking again, turning so that he was moving in the opposite direction, walking at a slightly faster pace as anticipation rolled through his body.

"You'll let me play with the one who lost the drugs, right ana~? I can play with him?"

Tai's grin widened at the immediate response that came from the other end, and he couldn't repress the small giggle that erupted past his lips.

"Thank you very much, Linh- _chi,"_ he purred.

"Thank you very much,  _Vietnam."_

_\- -_

**Chaoyang-Beijing, China-October 2011**

"Are you in town for awhile this time, Mei?"

The young woman looked up from the paper she was reading and stared at the man who had asked her the question- a squat, middle-aged waiter- before sighing. She made a motion to rub her hand across her tired eyes but quickly stopped, blinking rapidly and returning her gaze to the paper on the table. The characters and numbers on the document swam in front of her eyes, and she wanted nothing more but to down the tea quickly in one gulp with a few Advil thrown in for good measure. But that wouldn't be proper. And it certainly wouldn't reflect well on her if she couldn't even stand the pain from a simple headache.

"I'm afraid not," she replied, taking a sip from her tea before placing it on the table. "I will only be in town for a short time. Just to conclude the business I have here."

"Every time I see you you're here for business," snorted the man, replacing the empty kettle on Mei's table with a new one full of steaming hot water. "Tell me Mei, do you ever do anything for pleasure?"

"My work is my pleasure," replied the Taiwanese woman automatically. "I live to ensure my boss is satisfied."

The man rolled his eyes, walking away with the empty kettle. "I'll have a waitress bring you your check in a few minutes, Mei. See you around, I guess."

Mei didn't look up from her papers, and she did not reciprocate the friendly parting wave that the teashop owner had given her. Instead, she focused her gaze on the documents in front of her and picked them up, glaring at them.

No matter how hard she looked at them, the numbers didn't make sense. She'd been alive for over 90 years, and she still couldn't quite wrap her head around math. Or anything related to numbers. She could regurgitate and apply the formulas that she had been taught, but anytime a problem was too complicated to be solved by a set of equations, she was lost.

So, in retrospect, being the one to travel around Asia and keep a log of the cash flow and business dealings under China's regime was not the best job for her. In fact, it was probably the worst possible job for Mei Wang.

_But that's how it's always been,_ reflected Mei glumly,  _It's always been like this for me…_

Mei put the papers down, succumbing to her urges and rubbing the back of her hand across her blurry dark brown eyes. She sighed, and then looked down at the tea still sitting neatly on the table.

Without a second thought, she grabbed it and chugged it down, ignoring the screaming protest from her tongue as the hot liquid burnt her mouth.

_Is this truly all I can do for you,_ zhang xiong? She thought despondently, placing the empty teacup back on the table, cheeks burning with shame at her momentary lack of control.

_Over eighty years, and this is still all that I am worth to you, brother China?_

_\- -_

**.**

**.**

There was an aura of mystery surrounding Yao Wang.

The man was an enigma. Young, charming, and intelligent, he was well known by most of the business circles in Asia. The head of an influential and profitable company, based in China, his wealth and success were widely recognized. He had been at the head of the Asian business world for ten years, though it was rumoured that his power had roots much farther in the past. His corporation spread far, and even the few businesses that he had not officially bought out were likely to have been influenced by him in some manner.

Wang, however, did not present an exterior that caused people to suspect him of any underhanded dealings. He was not blatantly secretive, nor evasive, and appeared regularly at business functions and political events. The side ponytail and unusual amber eyes were a common sight at major events, and even the average worker could recognize his face and name. Surprising, as most privately owned companies tended to try and stay out of the limelight. However, the Prime Minister himself was said to often take tea with Wang, and insulting the latter could result in trouble with the former.

The truth of such rumours was questionable, but when it came to Yao Wang, there were many points where fact and fiction blended together. It was to be expected, considering next to nothing was known about the man’s background. Wang had explained, in an interview a few years previous, that he had grown up in Japan, and returned to China after the death of his caretakers. He had not, however, explained how he was able to start up a business so quickly, so _successfully._ Smug smiles and cryptic proverbs were his usual answers to any specific question, and interviewers never prodded him extensively. Whether it was out of respect, or whether they had received a warning before the interview began, was anyone’s guess.

So his past was left alone. Speculations and rumours remained just that. Everyone accepted Wang Yao for what he was: a smart, intelligent, influential young man who was in a position of extreme power and wealth. A man to be respected, and feared.

_And watched._

A man to be respected, and admired.

_And watched._

The young man pulled his scarf up higher on his face, violet eyes glinting sharply as he peered over the two photographs in front of him. One was of a Caucasian man with fair hair and green eyes, the other a man from East Asia, amber-eyed and dark haired.

Arthur Kirkland and Yao Wang.

_England and China._

The man smiled, leaning his cheek on fist as he regarded the numerous other photos and documents spread out across the table in front of him. Newspaper clippings, old government files, police reports, and a few eyewitness testimonies all littered the tabletop. Bookmarked, highlighted, with pieces missing and pieces stitched together. Separated, they said nothing, but together, they told an unbelievable, vicious story.

Still smiling, the man pulled a newspaper out of the pile. It was far newer than all the others, still smelling faintly of ink and fresh paper, with the bolded letters of its headline still unfaded. His eyes glittered as they read the headline for the hundredth time that day, a look of grim satisfaction and anticipation spreading across his face.

“ ** _KIRKLAND COMPANY EXPANDS INTO RUSSIA. CAN THE RECOVERING COMPANY SURVIVE SUCH A BOLD MOVE?”_**

_It begins again…_ he mused inwardly, a feeling giddiness spreading within him. _Are you watching world? The next round is about to begin…and it’s going to be more explosive than ever._

 

**Moscow, Russia- January 2012**

 

 

**\- - - - - - - - - - - - -**

 

.

The city was busy, cars rolling up and down the street and people walking along the sidewalks, struggling with bags, ambling along, or moving hurriedly through the dense crowds. There was a general hum of excitement about. The country was finally getting back on its feet after the dreadful economic slump that had left millions unemployed and life had returned to the city and once again. The street corners were adorned with peddlers, newspaper vendors, people selling all manor of food and people just wandering about, enjoying this second chance at life.

The number of cars on the street was more numerous now, as previously they had been somewhat scarce, people not having enough money to maintain themselves  _and_ a vehicle. Even so, the cars that had now found their way onto the road were not in the best condition.

Which was why, in theory, it wasn't such a surprise that one had blown a tire, spun out of control, and crashed into a newspaper stand.

"Didja see that!"

"Holy jumpin- what happened?"

"Is anyone hurt? Make way! Someone call the cops!"

Somewhere amidst the wreckage of the newspaper stand, a young man blinked his eyes open. There was a dull throbbing pain throughout his body, and he had a sneaking suspicion that his leg might be bent in a way that it really shouldn't be.

_Aw hell,_ he thought with a sigh, noticing the blood that had begun pooling beside his head,  _of all the darndest luck…_

The youth attempted to move his body, but a sharp pain had him recoiling and gritting his teeth, his head rolling over to face the other way. His eyes blinked open again, and he noticed a few newspapers that had fallen close to his face, all with the same heading.

**_GERMAN TANKS ROLE INTO POLAND! BRITAIN AND FRANCE DECLARE WAR ON GERMANY! WAR IN EUROPE HAS OFFICIALLY BEGUN!_ **

Despite the pain, the young man's lip curled up in disgust.

Who the hell gave a damn about Europe? More specifically, who the hell gave a damn about  _Britain?_

"Oi! There's a guy under there! Someone help us move the car!"

The youth sighed again, wincing as whatever was on top of him shifted, relieving some of the pressure on his torso. The car- as he now guessed it was -had been pushed up onto the newspaper stand…which had also collapsed on top of him. So now, he was pinioned under broken wood from the newspaper stand with the top of the car hanging precariously over him, wheels dangling in the air. The bottom half of the car still seemed to be crushing his legs, but at least he could move his upper body.

Wait, why could he move his upper body? Shouldn't it be all…squashed?

The youth pushed himself upwards, head scraping the remains of the newspaper stand as he heard the struggles of the men trying to move the car. Puzzled, he looked down at himself. His clothes were ripped and dirty, but there was no sign of any injuries. In fact….

The young man lifted a hand hesitantly and ran it through his hair before holding it up in front of his face.

No blood. The hot liquid that had moments ago been seeping out of his skull had disappeared.

"Come on guys! There's a fellow American under there! Get that car up!"

The youth yelped in pain as the weight was completely removed from his legs, and he rapidly blinked at the stream of light that had filtered into his coffin of wood and metal.

Than he paused.

Then he stared.

The young man watched in fascination (and horror) as his legs simultaneously twisted and turned, the white that had been protruding form the flesh popping back in, and the blood that had seeped from the wounds retracting, the liquid being completely absorbed out of the cloth of his pants. The bones realigned themselves, and he watched through a tear in his pants as the flesh across his knee knitted itself together.

_What the flying fu-_

"Heave!"

The car that had been lifted was flung to the side, and the young man found himself coughing at the amount of dust and dirt it sent up into the air as it hit the ground. Rubbing the grit out of his eyes, the youth found himself staring up at a crowd of people, their faces full of worry and horror…then confusion…then shock.

Alfred F. Jones rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly before pushing the remains of the newspaper stand off of himself and getting to his feet. Completely uninjured.

"Erm…," he said, laughing nervously. "Hero's luck?"

**New York City, United States of America- September 4th, 1939**

 //

Chapter 2: A long time ago, in a Galaxy far, far away...Or rather, 90 years ago, in Japan....


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

" _It wasn't by chance that I met you._ ** _This is what they call fate._** _"_

-Take Off,  **2PM**

**Manhattan, Unites States of America- January, 1922**

The air was frosty, biting, and vicious. Nipping at people mercilessly as it whipped and whirled down the busy street, whistling between buildings and through crowds. The cold wind blew harshly up the hems of jackets, sending top hats tumbling to the ground or whisking them away all together. All around, people were bundled up tightly in their thick coats, warm scarves and woolen gloves. The sky was gray, but bright, and that coupled with the lack of snow made the day look nowhere near as cold as it felt.

"Bloody hell, isn't America s'pposed to be warm?" cursed the man irritably, rubbing his gloved hands together. He cupped them and blew, sending a cloud of misty breath into the chilly January air as he tried to warm himself.

"Language please," admonished his associate with a sigh, wrapping his own scarf tighter about his neck. Appropriate conduct and gentlemanly behavior was a must…even if it  _was_ bloody cold.

"My apologies Mr. Kirkland," said the first man, ceasing his frantic motions and straightening his back before looking sheepishly towards his boss. Mr. Kirkland merely raised one of his notable eyebrows before pulling his top hat down further atop his sandy-blonde hair.

"Simply mind yourself better in the future," he said sternly, but not with any degree of menace or true annoyance. He was shivering himself and he sank his chin deep into the folds of his scarf.

"It  _is_ cold though," he commented with a sigh. "Let's hurry and get this business taken care of. The sooner we get back to England the better. I'm sure you're itching to get back to your son, right James?"

James grinned and nodded vigorously. "Howard is growing like you wouldn't believe. He'll be five soon. Five!"

Mr. Kirkland smiled at the man's excitement and love for his family, but found his smile strained and his mind wandering, as he began thinking of his own son, not yet nine years old. Their relationship was…mediocre at best, and there appeared to be a growing gap between what Mr. Kirkland  _thought_ his son wanted and what the boy actually seemed to desire.

The Englishman sighed and he found himself wishing that he could stay in this country longer and avoid the conflict, arguments, and tension that awaited him at home.

Despite the cold, America was a pleasant place. It had a constant busy hum to it and while England had a similar thrum of activity the streets of Manhattan just seemed more… _alive_ somehow. The way the people moved, the way they interacted with each other. The busyness that wasn't just business. A person walking might just be walking with no place to go, with no aim, and no purpose. A happy aimlessness that was different from London, where everyone had an agenda. Manhattan had an almost easy-going, joyful vibe that said that most of its inhabitants loved simply  _living_ and not living for any monetary or materialistic reasons.

Of course, that wasn't to say that the place was perfect. No, the homeless people on the street corners, shivering under newspapers and braced against the wind, were a harsh reminder that no Utopia could exist, even in a land of dreams like America.

Mr. Kirkland's eyes peered out from under his hat, watching a young couple with large shopping bags skip down the sidewalk with a giddy looking boy in between them.

Of course, the Englishman might be biased. His own home life and existence in London had become so frustrating lately that any place was likely to look better than the British city. There was nothing wrong with London itself, and yet, Mr. Kirkland was rather sick of it. Sick of the businessmen and their lies. Sick of the people there, still floating on euphoria after their victory in the war. And sick of the fact that he, the head of a major company and one of the most influential people in Europe, could not for all his money, seem to get along with his son.

"Hey! Hey! Thief! Stop thief!"

Both James and Mr. Kirkland paused in their stiff, quick walk, the younger of the two turning around with wide eyes while the elder man just looked back over his shoulder with an exasperated, somewhat irritated expression.

"Oi, what's all the commotion about?" inquired James, peering forward with eager eyes at the excitement and movement going on in a particularly loud crowd by a series of street-vendors.

"Ignore it James," commanded Mr. Kirkland sternly, "American theft is no different than British theft. Let's go."

The younger man seemed to deflate a little but he nodded at his boss's request and turned his head with a sigh, snuggling deeper into his jacket collar. "Yeah, ye-I mean, yes. Yes, you're quite right sir. My apologies." James flushed at his momentary slip-up and hid his face in his scarf, averting his eyes. Mr. Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his young assistant who, despite having recently turned thirty, still had a tendency to act quite immature.

The two British men resumed walking, and Mr. Kirkland bit back a sigh as he noticed a few white flakes beginning to drift down past his eyes, one of them stinging his nose with cold as it landed. The Englishman shook his head as water ran down the front of his nose and bit back a groan of annoyance. However much irritation he might feel with his homeland, he would take England's perpetual rain over this infernal white stuff any day.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, Mr. Kirkland did not hear the rapid pitter-patter of feet behind him, nor did he pay attention to the cacophony of shouts and curses coming from the collection of street vendors that they had just walked by. As such, he was understandably surprised when James let out a shout from behind him, and something large suddenly crashed into his legs.

"Wa-,"

"Oof!"

Mr. Kirkland's knees buckled and he was saved from falling only by his cane, which he leaned on heavily as he tried to keep his balance.

"Mr. Kirkland! Are you alright? Answer me sir!" James was at his side in an instance, holding onto his arm and helping to stop him from falling forward. Mr. Kirkland shook his head, trying to regain his bearings.

_What the bloody hell just happened?_ He thought to himself in astonishment, eyes growing wide at the sheer  _force_ he had been hit with. Mr. Kirkland turned around, steadying himself on James's supportive arm and standing up straight.

The sight he was met with was not one that he expected to see, though not necessarily a strange sight in a city as big and poverty stricken as New York.

It was a boy, looking to be no older than six if that. Messy dark blonde hair, with a single piece sticking defiantly upwards, hung into dazed dark blue eyes. The boy was young, younger than his own son, and, Mr. Kirkland realized with one glance, clearly living in poverty.

Tattered pants that barely reached his ankles, a once white shirt with a frayed, oversized grey vest hanging off of it and shoes with holes in the front, so that tiny toes could be seen. It was obvious the entire outfit had seen better days.

Then there was what the boy was carrying. Or what he had been carrying before he had crashed into Mr. Kirkland. A scattering of buns were spread out across the dirty pavement and as soon as the boy came to his senses he began frantically gathering them up, casting panicked glances back over his shoulder towards the crowd of street vendors.

Clearly, this boy had been stealing.

"Oi! Don't go runnin' into people like that!" snapped James irritably at the boy. The youngster looked up at the two Englishmen, having finished gathering up his stolen goods, and stuck his tongue out defiantly.

"Nyeh! Stuffy ol' farts! Shoulda watched where yous was walkin'!" he replied angrily in a thick Brooklyn accent, before resuming his frantic flee from whomever he had stolen from.

"Now wait just a minute!" fumed James, making motions to chase after the boy. Mr. Kirkland, however, tightened his grip on his young associates arm, causing the young man to stop.

"Let him be," said Mr. Kirkland, staring after the boy with a somewhat saddened expression. "I'm sure he needed the bread more then the one who was selling it anyways. Poverty is painful to see in children. That child…"

Mr. Kirkland shook his head, suddenly feeling like a leaden weight had settled into his chest.

"That child was younger than Arthur."

/

Alfred was feeling particularly lucky. It wasn't often that he got away with stealing so much at one time. The man who had been selling the buns had been so engrossed in a conversation with a rich-looking lady that he hadn't even seen the young boy grab an armful of food. Alfred had managed to get halfway down the street before nosy citizens had pointed out his theft.

Still, he had gotten away with his prize and the young American was feeling quite proud of himself. The warmth of accomplishment that spread through him was almost enough to banish the cold that had wrapped around his body. The winter winds bit at his unshielded toes, blew down his tattered shirt and through his matted hair, sent shivers up and down his spine and caused his nose to drip uncontrollably. But he had food, and the glow of achievement dulled the pain of the cold.

Alfred wiped away the drippage with his sleeve, taking care to maintain a tight hold on his buns as he did. It had been a chore keeping hold of them the whole time he was running. He thought that he might have lost a few, particularly when he had run into those two old guys.

Alfred scowled at that. He had worked  _hard_ to steal all these buns and then some stupid stiffs who talked funny had made him lose some! The young boy mumbled angrily to himself for a few moments before his irritated face gave way to a triumphant smile as he realized that he really  _had_  gotten away. That thought in mind, he finally stopped running and slowed to a brisk walk as his destination came into view.

It was a small, abandoned warehouse. Somewhat spacious, empty, and with holes dotting the roof. It really wasn't that much larger than your average house, and looked more like a large shack then a warehouse. The wood was rotting in many areas and the left back corner of the structure had collapsed and was covered up with badly hammered in planks and a number of blankets sewn together. The main doors were padlocked and rusted shut so that the only way in and out was through one of the many of the holes dotted about the exterior. Alfred made his way towards one of these holes, clutching at the buns that were beginning to escape the confines of his arms. The young boy hummed to himself, some song that had been stuck in his head for as long as he could remember. He thought that one day he'd put lyrics to it, or maybe pay someone to do it for him! Yeah, that would be swell.

Alfred smiled at the idea of getting someone to work for him and maneuvered his way through a hole in the wall, struggling to maintain his hold on the buns as he did and losing a few in the process.

"Mattie!" he called excitedly as he entered the warehouse, ignoring the few buns he had dropped and calling out for his brother. "Hey Mattie! Yous won't believe how much food I nicked this time! I knows ya don't like it when I steal but-,"

Alfred stopped his speech as he heard a soft sound echoing around the small warehouse, a quiet, but easily recognizable sound.

Coughing.

"Mattie?" called Alfred again, worry causing him to drop his buns as he dashed towards the corner of the Warehouse where his brother had been resting. "Mattie! Hey Mattie yous ain't still coughin' are ya? Yous said yous was feelin' better, right? Mattie? Mattie? Mattie?!"

There was no answer as Alfred ran towards the small form hidden under a mound of blankets in the dark corner. The young blonde's heart hammered in his chest as he approached, worry erasing the previous feelings of happiness and accomplishment that had moments ago consumed him.

"Mattie?"

In the corner, snuggled up in a pile of torn, thin-looking blankets, was another young boy. Similar to Alfred in both age and looks with wavy pale blonde hair and a flushed, skinny face. The boy's red-rimmed eyes opened a crack, revealing striking violet orbs that looked up at the other boy blurrily.

"A-Al?" he whispered, before his voice dissolved into harsh, phlegmy, coughing.

"Ack! Mattie!" cried Alfred in horror, falling to his knees and sidling up to his brother's side. "I thought yous stopped bein' sick! Why is yous still coughin'? H-hey! Hey!"

The younger boy doubled up in a coughing fit, curling up into a ball and tugging the blankets closer to him as his entire body shook violently.

_Mattie…_

Alfred swallowed thickly, hands trembling as he laid them on his brother's shaking form and eyes wide as Mattie's breath began coming out in short, painful wheezes. Alfred's breath hitched in his throat as he saw tears snaking their way down Mattie's dirty cheeks and a sob burst forth his lips.

"Mattie…" he whispered, clutching the blankets that covered his brother tightly, feeling the boy's severe trembling and the waves of unhealthy heat coming off of his body.

" _Please don't die!_ "

/

"Blimey sir, have you seen some of this stuff? Some o' these chocolates are glowing I swear! You think these would still look this fancy if I took them back to London? Do you think Howard would fancy them? Or Lillian! Do you think Lily would like them?"

Mr. Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the ceaseless excitement of his young assistant, who currently had his face pressed against the window of a sweet shop. The older man shuffled a bit, shivering in the icy wind that was blowing through. The temperature seemed to have dropped by several degrees since their walk to Mr. Kirkland's appointment with an important business associate, earlier that morning. The journey back to their hotel was proving to be much less enjoyable than the stroll to their meeting place had been. The air was crisper, colder, and large flakes of snow were blowing past at a heavier and heavier rate. Mr. Kirkland was beginning to regret not getting a driver to ferry them places. He had originally declined the offer because he had wished to experience the city of Manhattan without having it whiz by him too fast to see. Now, he wished for the warmth of a station wagon and the shortened distance between point A and point B. The cold chilled him to the bone and his joints were beginning to ache in the most annoying fashion.

_I'm too young to feel this old_ , bemoaned the Englishman internally.  _Why am I so old? It's probably the cane. Should not have bought the bloody cane. I'm only thirty-nine for Christ's-,_

"Help! Please! Somebody help!"

Mr. Kirkland was torn from his thoughts by a panicked, pleading voice coming from further up the street. The man looked in the direction curiously, his grip tightening around the hated cane as if in anticipation of stopping whatever was causing the unidentified voice harm. James tore his face away from the window, pouting as if upset at having been interrupted in picking out the perfect chocolate for his son and his wife. "Oi, what's all that racket?" he inquired, an irritated look on his face as he straightened up.

"I don't know," frowned Mr. Kirkland, trying to see through the crowds and the increasing haze of falling snow. "Perhaps we should go and see."

James grimaced, shivering in the cold wind and shifting his feet slightly. "Well, it's like you said," muttered the young man, pulling the collar of his coat up against the harsh winds, "Whatever is going on here isn't different then what would happen back home. Some one will help whomever it is out. Manhattan's a big city, and we're not exactly locals. What would we do? Direct them to the nearest hospital or police station when we don't know where they are?"

Mr. Kirkland frowned deeper and part of him wanted to reprimand James for the impertinence he had heard in the younger man's voice, while the other part reasoned that what he had said was true. Whoever it was that needed help would receive much better aid from someone who actually  _lived_ here rather than from two foreigners.

Mr. Kirkland gave a curt nod, stifling a sigh at the unpleasant feeling that had settled in his stomach, and continued walking. James gave a partly triumphant smile before shoving his hands into his pocket and following after his boss.

"Please, anybody, help my brother! Please!"

Mr. Kirkland stiffened as he heard the voice again, this time closer than before. It sounded painfully young and tugged at his heartstrings. That was the one thing that had really changed in the times since his wife had had Arthur. Previous to having a son, he'd been able to turn a blind eye to the poverty in the streets. He'd been able to walk by an urchin with no shoes begging for money. He'd been able to ignore it, just like everyone else.

But now, hearing a child's voice crying for help, knowing that the child could be Arthur's age or younger...And the fact that the cries hadn't stopped, that it seemed like no one was going to the child's aid…

" _Please!"_

Mr. Kirkland stopped abruptly, causing James to bump into him with a startled sound.

"Oi! Sir, what's the mat-,"

Mr. Kirkland began walking quickly towards the left, the direction from which he had heard the crying voice. As James began questioning his actions, a determined, stubborn look appeared on the older man's face. The famous 'Kirkland' face of absolute tenacity and steadfast gentlemanly pig-headedness.

Yes the locals were more able to deal with whatever situation was eliciting those cries, yes it was cold and he should really just go back to his hotel, yes it  _really_ was none of business. But Mr. Kirkland had a soft heart under his gruff business like exterior and moreover, he had a son who used to use that exact tone of voice when pleading for his father to play with him.

"Somebody…please…"

It didn't take the Englishman long to find the source of the voice. Weaving his way through the sidewalk crowd, he made his way over to a narrow passageway between two buildings, at the mouth of which stood the cause of the distressed cry.

Mr. Kirkland's eyes widened in surprise, bushy brows going straight up into his hairline as he recognized the young boy who had run into him earlier.

This time, however, there appeared to be two of them.

There was the first boy, who was standing with tears running from his swollen eyes and hoarsely calling out for help. Then there was the second boy, who the first boy had slung across his back in piggyback position. This boy was completely still, with his head lolling against the first boy's shoulder and entire body hanging limp.

"Somebody please help my brother!" screamed the first boy, taking a few staggering steps forward before falling onto his hands and knees.

Mr. Kirkland rushed forward, kneeling in front of the boy and placing his hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, lad? What's the matter?" asked the Englishman, casting a concerned look at the other boy, the one who hung limply and who hadn't moved an inch.

The first boy looked up in surprise, blue eyes wide. "M-my b-brother is s-sick," he sobbed, entire body shaking, "I-I th-think he's g-gonna d-d-die…"

Mr. Kirkland's face paled and he took a closer look at the second boy.

Indeed, the boy did not appear to be in good condition. He was worryingly pale except for the unhealthy flush on his cheeks. His hair was damp from either snow or sweat and hung in limp blonde strands around his face. The boy was breathing shallowly and his face was scrunched up in pain and discomfort. Mr. Kirkland reached out a tentative hand towards the child but found him yanked out of reach by his brother, who scurried backwards with a panicked look on his face.

"Watcha gonna do? Don't hurt him!" screamed the young boy, eliciting glances from several of the passerbys who had previously been ignoring him. "If you hurt him I'll…I'll…I'll biff ya somethin' awful!"

Mr. Kirkland paled and held up both hands in a placating gesture, astounded by the sheer volume emitted by such a thin-looking boy. "Now, now lad, calm down. You've been calling for help right? That's all I want to do, help you and your brother." The Englishman cast a worried look at the other boy, who hadn't moved at all despite his brother's loud outburst.

_He looks extremely ill,_ thought Mr. Kirkland, brow furrowed with worry,  _and he's barely clothed…in this weather…_

Mr. Kirkland once again moved closer to the two little boys but the conscious boy moved backwards, retreating into the alley with a panicked look. The Englishman gritted his teeth and moved back slightly, feeling a rising sense of urgency as he watched the sick boy's harsh breathing give way to coughing, the now heavily falling snow settling into his hair and on his back. While trying to think of a way to get the boy to trust him, Mr. Kirkland suddenly stiffened, noting for the first time that James had come up behind him and was standing by anxiously.

"Sir…" began the young man hesitantly while casting a wary glance towards the young boy crouched in front of his boss. The youth recoiled at the new man, panic in his red-rimmed eyes.

Fearing that the scared boy was likely to bolt at any moment, Mr. Kirkland turned to give James a stern look. "Hush James, give me a moment," he shushed, before pausing and looking over his assistant's shoulder to the busy street behind. "Actually, James, do you mind hailing down a cab?" His eyes slid back towards the shivering boy in the alleyway and his sickly brother. Both were dressed in threadbare clothes, attire not suitable for decent weather, let alone an increasing snowstorm. The sick boy appeared to be wearing socks but no shoes, while the other boy had too-small shoes but no socks. Despite his belligerence, the apparent awake brother was shivering and an unhealthy flush was beginning to colour his cheeks as well.

_They need to get out of this weather…_

James startled slightly, surprised by his boss's request. His eyes narrowed and he cast a suspicious, somewhat contemptuous look at the boys cowering in the alleyway.

"Sir," began the young man sternly, "If I may…I realize you…your heart is in the right place but honestly, the little brats are just going to run off with your wallet the second you turn your back and the smaller one gets tired of playing sick. It's like you said before, America isn't any different from England."

A beat of silence passed between them, before Mr. Kirkland’s eyebrows came together in anger and he whirled on his assistant furiously.

"This is what I'm saying  _now!_ " thundered Mr. Kirkland in a loud voice he rarely ever used, a stern, enraged voice that caused his young assistant to jump. "I will  _not_ simply walk by and let two little boys freeze to death! Regardless of whether or not they plan to steal my belongings, they will die if left alone. Or do you not see the snow falling in front of your face? Has your affluence so desensitized you from the plights of others? Do you truly intend to have me walk away from children younger than Arthur? One of them sick and in need of medical attention, while the other is sure to follow if he continues living in these conditions? If this is truly your opinion on the matter, than I  _gravely_  misjudged your character when I hired you. Now, James, go do what you're paid to do- obey me.  _Go hail a cab."_  Mr. Kirkland's last statement came out as a harsh snarl and James recoiled as if he had been slapped, a stricken expression on his face. He took a step back before nodding stiffly and turning away, running to the side of the sidewalk while waving his hand in the air somewhat frantically.

Mr. Kirkland stared angrily after his young assistant before deflating like a balloon. He released his breath in a loud sigh and took off his looming top hat to run a hand through his sandy locks.

James was young. He had never known poverty, his family being a well-off, well-known English family that the Kirklands had been working with closely for a few generations now. He had grown up in the same manner that Mr. Kirkland himself had; with his nose sharply upturned to the plights of those 'beneath' him and with a conditioned blind eye towards the poor.

Mr. Kirkland felt a twinge of guilt as he turned away from his young assistant, but he brushed it off. James was in the wrong here. No questions asked.

A harsh cough caused Mr. Kirkland to whirl around, his attention once again on the young boys. The boy he presumed to be older, the one who was carrying his brother, was looking up at him with a puzzled and somewhat stunned expression. The Englishman withered on the inside. Had his outburst destroyed any chance he had had of making the child unafraid of him?

The child stared unblinking at the man and Mr. Kirkland cleared his throat awkwardly, preparing to try and placate the boy.

"Wow," said the boy, blinking his wide blue eyes and interrupting Mr. Kirkland's thoughts, "Ya sure gots a loud voice. Heard ya right over da city noise. An', t'was real nice whatcha said. Y'all dressed real nice an' stuff. Nice-dressed people ain't usually nice. Theys always tryin' ta take us to da cops or somethin'. Didn't 'spect a nice-dressed person ta stop when I started hollerin'."

Mr. Kirkland blinked, stunned at the sudden rush of words from the young boy who, moments before, had been screaming at him, terrified.

"Oi, Mista," continued the boy, waddling out of the alleyway to stand in front of the Englishman. "You really mean it, ya gonna 'elp us? Me an' Mattie? Mattie's real sick ya know…I…I'm real scared…" the boy's sudden rush of confidence disappeared as he hung his head, tears once again dripping down his cheeks as he took the limp hand of his brother.

"P-please," he whimpered in a heart-breaking voice, "I…I'm s'posed ta protect him. I'm 'is big brotha…I'm s'pposed ta b-be his h-hero!"

Mr. Kirkland's heart positively broke as the little boy broke down into sobs and he knelt in front of the young child.

"There, there, don't cry," soothed the man, awkwardly patting the boy on the head. He mentally sighed in relief when the child didn't flinch or pull away and continued with his movements, inching closer as he did. "Listen, you're here aren't you? Out in the cold? And it's all for your brother, right? That means you're doing a splendid job of protecting him. I mean, it might have been better if you had left him inside instead of exposing him to the elements, but…"

Mr. Kirkland trailed off as the young boy looked up at him, a stricken look on his face.

_Dammit, I never could talk to children,_ cursed the man internally,  _even Arthur…_

"S-sir."

The boy drew back, looking up distrustfully at James, who had hesitantly appeared behind Mr. Kirkland. The older man turned around, slightly irritated at having the progress he had made regressed. However, his eyes softened as he saw the dejected and somewhat pained expression on James's face.

"Ah," said the elder man somewhat awkwardly, "Did you-?"

"Yes," replied James automatically, before flushing and recoiling as if apologetic for interrupting. "Y-yes, th-there is a cab waiting." Mr. Kirkland nodded, turning away from his assistant. Just looking at the young man's depressed face was causing his conscience to send waves of discomfort through his stomach.

_I'll talk to him later,_ sighed the man internally,  _but right now…_

The boy had retreated into the alley again, looking at James with pure distrust. There was a pout to his lips and his entire body was shivering. His brother had begun coughing again, and tears were gathering in the eyes of both boys.

"Now, now," soothed Mr. Kirkland, once again turning his full attention to the boys, "I thought we were on better terms! Come now, come out, please?"

A few long seconds later, the boy inched himself and the brother he was carrying out of the alleyway, sending a particularly nasty glare at James as he did. The young assistant actually flinched under the intense stare and, with a glance towards his boss, retreated to the cab.

Mr. Kirkland could visibly see the boy relax and he couldn't help but smile as the young American gave him a small smile once James had gone.

"I dun like 'im, m'glad he's gone," mumbled the boy, shivering more than ever, stamping his feet as he did. "W-wotcha need a cab f-for anyways? G-gonna call a d-doctor? 'urry please, I'm w-worried 'bout M-Mattie…'so cold, y-y'know?"

Mr. Kirkland's heart clenched painfully again. "Mattie? Is that your brother's name?"

The boy looked up, seeming a bit surprised at the question. He nodded once, casting a worried glance over his shoulder, where his brother's head lolled limply.

"And what's your name?" asked the Englishman.

"A-Alfred," responded the American, looking more and more detached from the environment as he began to shiver more violently, his blue eyes blinking lethargically.

_Bollocks._ Cursed Mr. Kirkland internally. "Well Alfred, I'm going to take you and Mattie to see a doctor, okay? We're going to go in the cab, to the hotel I'm staying at, and-  _bloody hell!_ "

Mr. Kirkland just managed to lunge forward and catch the two Americans as Alfred toppled forward, his eyes slipping shut as he finally succumbed to the cold that had been biting mercilessly at his body.

"Dammit!" cursed the Brit aloud, "James! James get over here! I need you to carry one of these boys back to the cab!"

Mr. Kirkland gently eased the brothers to the ground before quickly taking off his jacket. He wrapped the article of clothing around the younger one, Mattie, and picked him up carefully. James rushed over and, quickly assessing the situation, picked up Alfred. The young man's mouth was in a straight line, and he kept whatever opinions he might have had about the situation to himself. Mr. Kirkland nodded to his assistant before rushing quickly towards the cab.

_I don't know what I'm doing..._ thought the British man, wincing at the unhealthy heat coming off of the young boy in his arms,  _but I can't let these boys die out here. I don't know what it is, but I feel…responsibly for them somehow._

Mr. Kirkland looked down at Mattie. The boy's face was pale with an unhealthy red at the cheeks and sweat beading his brow. His hair was wet and clung to his skin; his mouth open as harsh, grating breathing came through.

Mr. Kirkland gritted his teeth angrily.

_No matter where I go, it's the same. It's always the innocent who suffer for the mistakes of the arrogant._

_No matter what, I will not let these boys die._

**\--**

**Tokyo, Japan- March, 1922**

"Wang Yao will be transferred to your faction."

Kiku looked up from the work he was doing, momentarily distracted by the interaction between his father and the messenger that had just appeared in the doorway. His hold on his brush loosened slightly, before he remembered that he was supposed to be practicing his characters and he dropped his head back down with a shamed blush. Despite his attempts at concentration, the words of the conversation still reached his ears.

"What?" hissed his  _father_ _,_ brow creased in anger, "This is unacceptable! I won't have that-,"

"Sir," interrupted the man, his mouth set in a firm line, "This is not a request. This is an order. Wang Yao will be placed under your jurisdiction. He will be transferred tonight. I trust you'll take the proper procedures to…make him feel welcome _."_

The messenger bowed deeply before turning around and leaving, sliding the door of the house shut behind him.

Unable to resist, Kiku lifted his head, blinking owlishly as he watched his father's stiff and angered movements as he moved away from the door and stalked across the room to the kitchen entrance. The young boy winced as his father wrenched the kitchen door open and then pulled it shut forcefully. The walls of the room shook and Kiku let out a small noise of despair as the ink he had been using swished about and threatened to spill over the side of the container.

What was going on? Why was  _Otou-sama_ so upset? Who was Wang Yao?

Kiku frowned as the ink finally calmed down and stared at his paper with a pensive look on his face, before turning his head to look towards the door that the messenger had stood at seconds ago.

The young Japanese boy knew better than to pry into his father's affairs and he knew that his father was not the calmest person and was often presented with situations that frustrated him. But such a reaction to a mere name…

And what a name it was.

Wang Yao. Kiku had never heard a name that sounded like that before. And he had never heard of the Wang family either. The youth knew all the families that made up the network that his father belonged to. The Matsumoto, Sawada, and his own family, the Honda. Powerful Japanese who had been in power for decades. Kiku's family in particular was very powerful and the youth took pride in knowing that his  _otou-sama_ had achieved the rank of 'Right-hand',  _Wakagashira._ One day, Kiku would be the Right Hand to the future boss, as his family had been since the beginning of their complex organization. One day, it would be he who handled the affairs of their community with dignity and grace.

But first he had to learn all his  _Kanji_ characters, and stop thinking about 'Wang Yao' and things that did not, at the moment, concern him.

Kiku tightened his hold on the brush again and pushed up the sleeves of his  _yukata._ He dipped the tip of the brush into the now calm well of ink and began slowly, painstakingly, copying down the unfamiliar script.

For now, this was all that he had to worry about.

**/**

The dojo was a forbidden area.

It was the area where his  _father_ often met with his subordinates and officers, the place where they would occasionally spar with their fierce-looking swords and even fiercer looking faces. This was the place where his father had his men settle disputes. If there were arguments over money, who had got it, who had lost it, then it would be fought out in here. Sumo was a popular form of fighting, both to solve issues and to simply let off steam when the old men wanted to 'play'. There was almost always something going on in the Honda dojo and as such, it was one of the many places in the residence that Kiku was forbidden from entering.

The courtyard, the main dining room, his father's bedroom, those were others.

Kiku had no interest in the main dining room. It was a spacious room, with ornate decorations and a large table in the center. Due to the number of expensive artifacts and adornments in the room, Kiku had never been allowed in it. And he never really had a wish to. Like most young children, he had a tendency to loose control of his limbs and knock things over or trip frequently. Not good traits to take into a room full of priceless heirlooms and relics.

Contrastingly, Kiku would have jumped at the opportunity to go out into the courtyard and see the  _sakura_ trees, something he was never allowed to do unless accompanied by several of his father's subordinates. He never really understood why that was but as a respectful and dutiful young son, he obeyed his  _otou-sama's_ wishes and did not leave the house by himself.

His father's room was, perhaps, the most forbidden. Kiku had never had so much as a glimpse inside so he was not sure why the area was so taboo. He guessed that not entering the room was a part of showing respect for his  _otou-sama_ and gave it wide berth.

Kiku was an obedient, dutiful son. He did what he was told. He listened to his elders.

But he was a seven-year-old boy.

And when left alone for long periods of time he got bored.

And he got curious.

Which brought him to the point he was at today, one hand on the door of the dojo, which he had just pushed open. Eyes wide as he peered within.

It was okay to go in, just this once, wasn't it?

The young boy took in a sharp breath as he stepped onto the matted floor, body shaking as he took in the absolute emptiness of the room. Kiku swallowed nervously before stepping further into the dojo. His attention was immediately drawn to the far wall, which had an array of  _katana_ sitting on spikes or strapped with thick leather to the wall. Kiku took quick steps towards that side of the room, looking furtively over his shoulder as he did.

Kiku reached the far wall and he stared up in awe at the weapons that stretched from one side to the other. His dark eyes blinked rapidly and he took a step back, craning his neck upwards to get a better view of the selections closer to the ceiling. Kiku's eyes widened at the sparkling blades with the ornamental handles and his gaze trailed down the wall to follow a selection of long, thin swords, varying only in the intricate designs of their hilts and the characters inscribed on them. The youth let out a short gasp as he saw a particular blade near the middle of the wall. It seemed rather plain in comparison to the intricate designs of the other swords, as it lacked designs or characters and was simply a straight, silver blade with a black hilt. But Kiku was taken with it. The gleam of its surface, the slight curve of the blade, the unblemished silver, and the single, deadly point at the tip. Unconsciously, Kiku extended a hand upwards, as if yearning to touch it. He stretched up on to his toes, his sandals bending underneath his feet as he reached…

"What are you doing?"

Kiku gasped and whirled around, eyes wide as he frantically began muttering apologies and bowing. Oh no! He'd thought that no one would be in the house today…but he had been discovered.  _Otou-sama_ would be angry….

" _S-sumimasen!"_ he stammered, bowing low again and again. "I th-thought I was allowed in here today. I-I will leave immediately-,"

"Hold on,  _aru_. Stop panicking."

Kiku halted his frantic apologies and bowing. He lifted his head, brow creased in confusion at the strange accent and choice of words that his mysterious visitor had just used. In what region of Japan did they end their sentences with 'aru'?

As he straightened, Kiku saw the stranger clearly for the first time. It appeared to be a boy, older than him, with black hair tied back in a ponytail and an overlong green  _yukata_ sagging about his feet. There was something odd about the boy's facial features and Kiku's surprise was momentarily pushed aside as he stared at the stranger, trying to determine what was off about him.

"I'm Chinese," said the boy, interrupting Kiku'a thoughts as well as startling him.

"Wh-what?" stammered Kiku, face red at having been caught so blatantly staring.

"I'm not Japanese,  _aru._ I'm Chinese, from the mainland of Asia," continued the boy, what looked like a smirk playing about the corners of his lips. "That's why I look different from you,  _aru._ No need to stare."

Kiku blushed a deeper red before shaking his head rigorously. "I-I wasn't staring!" he denied, confusion and humiliation rolling through him.

"You  _were, aru,"_ laughed the boy. "That's fine, I don't mind."

The Chinese boy walked into the dojo, his eyes traveling about the room with interest. Kiku's eyebrows shot up at the lack of respect as the foreigner unceremoniously prodded at the weapons in one of the neat piles on the floor and even picked a wooden sword up and swung it experimentally.

"H-hey!" protested Kiku, running up to the older boy. "Y-you can't do that! Ch-children aren't allowed to touch the weapons without an adult's permission!"

The Chinese boy turned his head slightly, an amused arch to his eyebrows. "Oh? Well, lucky for me I'm not a child then. Unlike  _you, aru."_ Kiku flinched at the boy's sharp tone, before his eyes narrowed and his small hands clenched into fists.

How  _dare_ he? He might only be seven years old, but he was still Honda Kiku, son of the First Lieutenant of the  _Gama_ family Yakuza. One day, he would be First Lieutenant to the next  _Oyabun._ Even though he was still just a child, his father's subordinates still treated him with respect.

This  _Chinese boy_ should be no exception.

"Do you know who I am?" hissed Kiku angrily. " _Watashi wa Honda Kiku desu!"_

"Oh?" replied the Chinese boy, turning to fully face Kiku with a slightly amused look on his face. " _Nice to meet you_ _,_ _Kiku-kun_ _. Ore wa Wang Yao, aru."_

Kiku's eyes grew wide, both at the casual way that the foreigner was addressing him ( _nobody_ called him  _Kiku-kun_. It was either  _Bocchan_ or occasionally,  _Honda-kun_ ) and at the name that he had just introduced himself as.

Wang Yao.

The reason his Father had been frustrated and angry two days before.

That was this boy? This Foreigner who couldn't have been more than a few years older than him?

"Have you heard of me,  _aru?"_ asked Yao with a smirk, obviously noticing Kiku's surprise, "I've been in the family for awhile. Not as important or as outright as your father of course, but I've gotten around,  _aru._ I've made quite a name for myself and done a lot for the  _Oyabun._ I'm ten years old but I'm already quite respected.  _And,"_ Yao grinned, taking a few steps closer and bending so that he and Kiku were at eye level. "I'm considered an adult,  _aru._ "

Kiku's cheeks flushed red with shame and he suddenly found himself at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say? This…this Wang Yao. He was only three years older than him, but he was respected in the family,  _for himself._ Not because of who his father was or what his father did, but because of who  _he_ was.

"This is a nice dojo,  _aru,"_ continued Yao, turning away from Kiku as if having lost interest in the previous conversation. "There are a lot of weapons. More than there were at the other house I was staying with." The Chinese youth hefted the wooden sword over one shoulder and spun on his heel, tilting his head to the side as he once again face Kiku. "Did your father collect them all himself?" he inquired, unusual amber eyes centered on the Japanese youth.

The seven year old startled slightly before nodding shyly, a deep red blush across his cheeks. He hadn't realized how important and powerful Wang- _san_ was. Now, he was sure to face reparations from his father when the man found out about how rudely he had addressed his subordinate.

And he had been having such a  _good_ day!

"I-I don't know," stammered Kiku, bowing deeply. "A-and I apologize for earlier. It was disrespectful."

"Don't be sorry,  _aru_ ," replied Yao, with a shrug, "You have a right to be proud of your family name. But," the ten-year-old's eyes darkened, "Remember, you have done nothing yourself to warrant that respect, so be mindful of how you expect others to treat you. Not everyone will roll over onto their backs and show their bellies when they hear your father's name. Prepare for a time when it will no longer shield you."

Kiku blinked rapidly, and he found himself bowing again, unsure of exactly what Yao meant (the Hondas would  _always_ be in power) but instinctively feeling like he had been given a great piece of advice and should respond accordingly.

" _Thank you very much,_ _Wang-san,"_ he said, rising up from the bow. Kiku let out a squeak and jumped backwards, suddenly confronted with the end of the wooden stick thrust in his face. "Wh-what-,"

"Want to spar?" asked Yao with a grin, hefting the sword over one shoulder. "There's another  _bokken_  over there."

"You want to…?" Kiku blinked at the older boy in astonishment, eyes following Yao's finger, which was pointing towards another hardwood sword that was propped against a wall.

"B-but I'm not allowed to-,"

"It's alright, I'm giving you permission,  _aru,_ " grinned Yao, walking over to where the other sword was leaning and snatching it up, tossing it deftly towards Kiku. The Japanese youth let out a squeak as the  _bokken_  flew towards him, managing to wrap his arms around it and catch it before it hit the ground.

"W-wang-san!" He stammered. "Th-that is not proper-,"

"You really are boring, aren't you," muttered Yao with a raised eyebrow. "Loosen up. No one's here but us today, right? Come on, maybe you'll learn something. Your _father_ is pampering you too much. You can't expect to take up the mantle of  _Wakagashira_ if you've never touched a sword before."

Kiku's eyes blinked wide in surprise at the words. What did Wang-san mean by that? It was his right to take up his Father's position as  _Wakagashira_. Just because he hadn't touched a sword yet didn't change that fact. Kiku found prickles of irritation beginning to manifest within him. Pretty much from his arrival, this Wang boy had been making challenges at his birthright and his own standing in the family. Kiku didn't get mad easily, but he was tired of the stranger's smug attitude.

Regardless of Wang Yao's own high rank, regardless of the fact that he was older, he had disrespected Honda Kiku several times today.

Kiku adjusted his hold on the sword, wrapping both hands below the hilt. He lowered the hardwood stick slowly into the diagonal position he had seen his father use before.

Yao blinked at Kiku's sudden serious expression and then laughed.

"You're so cute,  _aru!"_ he cooed, still laughing. "So serious! You really are the cutest thing!"

Kiku bristled and raised the sword in preparation for a swing. Immediately, Yao's eyes narrowed and he brought his own sword upwards, blocking Kiku's downward slash with ease.

"Tsk. I made you mad, didn't I,  _aru?"_ commented Yao in a soft, silky voice. "Well then. Let's see what you can do, Kiku- _chan._ "

Kiku's eyes flew open in indignation and he pulled his sword out of Yao's block with a shout before swinging at the Chinese boy's side. Yao smirked and blocked again, sliding his _bokken_ down instead of blocking it directly. Pulling his blade free, Yao held it up over his head and brought it down in a swift, soundless slash. Kiku's eyes widened and he let out a little gasp at the sight of the wooden sword speeding towards him, his own sword going limp in his grasp. He squeaked and closed his eyes, placing his hands over his head in anticipation of the painful blow that was sure to occur.

Kiku waited a few seconds and then slowly peeked out of one eye, still cringing in preparation of the hit from the  _bokken._

"You can get up,  _aru._ I'm not going to hit you, you big baby."

Both of Kiku's eyes flew open at that comment and he stood up immediately, face red with indignation.

"I-I'm not a baby!" he exclaimed, hand tightening around the  _bokken,_ which he once again raised in front of his face. Again with the insults! If this Wang Yao thought he could-

"Put it down," said Yao dryly with a roll of his eyes. "I've seen everything I need to see. Honestly,  _aru._ "

"W-what's that supposed to mean?" squeaked Kiku, hands balling up into fists.

"You're extremely inexperienced," said Yao with a shrug, leaving his own  _bokken_  loose at his side. "You have had absolutely no training whatsoever."

"I-I know that," stammered Kiku, trying to ignore the burning flush in his cheeks. "I-I'm only seven! My training will start later."

"No," said Yao abruptly, eyes narrowed and dark. "That is foolish. 'Later' is an unacceptable date. Your training should start now."

"I'm too young," said Kiku in a matter of fact manner, reciting what had been told to him on the one occasion he had asked his  _father_ a similar question. "I would not be able to handle the con-OW!"

Kiku staggered back, clutching his head and falling to his knees with a pained gasp. He whimpered, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

"Wh-why did you do that?" he whined, looking up at Yao and the  _bokken_ he held in his raised hand. The Japanese boy immediately balked at the harsh glare his question was met with. Yao had a blank expression on his face but his eyes were narrowed and staring harshly. He appeared to be standing loosely and relaxed but his hands were clenched into fists and his jaw was tightened slightly.

"You, you don't even understand do you?" he asked softly, kneeling down so he was at eye level with the crouching Kiku. "You are  _never_ too young. That is just an excuse- and a bad one at that. The younger you start the better prepared you are for the future. And Kiku-kun,"

Kiku bristled while Yao just smiled, tilting his head to the side slightly. "The future that is approaching, the one that I wish to bring about- it will devour anyone who is not prepared. No one weak will survive."

Kiku's eyes widened at the statement and he found himself drawing away from the Chinese youth, unnerved by both the boy's statement and the matter-of-fact tone his voice had taken.

"Wh-what are you talking about?" he stammered, "What do you-,"

"The war in Europe ended a few years ago," interrupted Yao, "But another one is sure to start. Have you heard about how Germany was treated,  _aru_? Perhaps it was wise to have them defeated so utterly but leaving them to their own devices now is sure to lead to conflict in the future. No people with a shred of self-respect or pride would let themselves be treated as the Germans have been and not strive for retribution." The boy sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, as if seeking guidance from above, before turning it back on Kiku.

"You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you,  _aru?_ " he asked, amused. "Hm, perhaps I'll add a history lesson to that sword-fighting lesson…"

"I-I don't understand what you're saying," admitted Kiku with an ashamed blush. "I-I've heard about the war, but I don't get-,"

"This world is too divided,  _aru_ ," interrupted Yao, "It needs a single, strong ruler to govern it. People are too full of folly and wiles to be left to their own devices. Young as I am, I can see that,  _aru_." Yao paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "Or, perhaps, it is  _because_ I am young that I can see it."

The Chinese boy sighed again, closing his eyes and falling back onto his bottom.

"Of course," he continued, crossing his legs and folding his arms into his sleeves, "Building a new world won't be easy,  _aru_. It takes time, dedication, skill. Many, many things. It is a very weighty task. That is why I have begun my preparations so young. 'Later' is not an option if I wish to change the world." Yao opened an eye a slit, peering at Kiku with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Kiku-kun," began Yao slowly, opening his other eye. "Will you build a new world with me?"

There was silence in the dojo. Kiku continued to stare at Yao, mind not really processing what had been said, and quickly becoming more confused than ever. Yao stared back at him, eyes half-closed and an impassive look on his face.

The silence stretched on with neither youth speaking. Kiku was quickly becoming uncomfortable and he shifted in his crouched position, his gaze long since having dropped to the floor. The silence was stifling and that coupled with the whirl of questions in his head and the utter confusion that was consuming him was quickly overwhelming the young boy.

"You're confused,  _aru,_ " said Yao, finally breaking the silence. "That's alright. For now, that's fine. In any case…"

Yao grinned, getting to his feet with a shake of his head. "You are still far too weak,  _aru_. Such a child."

"Hey!" exclaimed Kiku in indignation, breaking his own silence and leaping to his feet. Shame quickly coloured his cheeks as he remembered, once again, that Yao was both his elder and his superior. "Uh, I-I mean…"

"Speak your mind,  _aru_. I won't bite," said Yao with an amused smirk. Kiku remained silent, gaze centered on the ground. Yao frowned and leaned forward. "I mean it,  _aru._ It's not a crime to say what you're feeling. You don't have to worry about status with me, because to be honest, I don't care. Status means nothing unless you have the power and skill to back it up. I'm not treating you with the respect the others do because you have yet to prove yourself. Similarly, you only have rumours to back up your perception of me. Save your demure behaviour for when I have earned it,  _aru_."

Kiku clenched his fists, clutching the cloth of his  _yukata_ tightly.

"Status is very important," he muttered, "How can you say it means nothing? It means everything."

" _Poppycock_ ," replied Yao immediately, pouting.

"P-poppy  _what?_ " asked Kiku, flabbergasted.

"It's an English word," explained Yao, a smug look on his face, "Like the Foreigners speak. Can  _you_ speak English Kiku?"

Kiku blinked and then swallowed, looking nervous and embarrassed. "N-no," he stammered, blushing.

"Well, neither can I,  _aru,"_ admitted Yao with a laugh. "I'm learning though. I want to go to Hong Kong one day, and I hear that they speak a lot of English there. If I want to be powerful, I have to speak all of the languages of the places I want to rule. I speak Japanese and Mandarin,  _aru,_ and I'm learning English. I'm going to start on Korean soon. Korea is part of Japan's empire right? I want to learn to speak that language as well."

Yao tilted his head and placed his hand on his chin, an amused, contemplative look on his face. "There's lots that I want to do,  _aru,"_ he mused, "So much."

Kiku stared at the older boy, awe and grudging admiration in his dark eyes. Wang-san just kept getting more and more interesting. As far as Kiku knew, all the men in the Yakuza only spoke Japanese. He knew that a few members knew some Mandarin but he did not know anyone who was fluent in it. And English! Kiku had heard of the foreigners, of the ones from the West who came and muscled in on Japanese business unwelcomed. But he had never met one and he had never heard their sure-to-be-strange language.

"That is..." began Kiku hesitantly. The Japanese youth paused and he swallowed nervously before remembering Yao's previous comment about speaking his mind.

"That is…very impressive Wang-san! I am extremely impressed at that! I too wish to learn other languages!" exclaimed Kiku, practically shouting out his praises as he exercised the right to his own opinion for what felt like the first time.

Yao grinned at the boy's exuberant reaction and gave a little laugh. "Is that so? I'm flattered,  _aru._ And please Kiku-kun," Yao smiled and he regarded the younger boy with an almost mischievous look, "Wang-san is far too formal for a kid like me. Call me Yao. Better yet, call me o _nii-chan._ "

" _O-onii-chan?_ " spluttered Kiku, eyes widening at the smug, self-assured look on Yao's face. Why on earth would he call Yao _big brother?_ And with that honorific! "W-wang-san, I don't think-,"

In the midst of Kiku's stuttering, Yao stiffened and a serious look spread across his face. Immediately, he launched himself at Kiku, tackling the younger boy to the ground and covering his mouth with a sleeved hand. Kiku let out a frightened squeak and struggled under the older boy's weight, hitting at Yao's chest futilely.

"Sh!" hushed Yao. "Someone's just come into the house. I think it's your father."

Kiku immediately froze, dark eyes wide and pupils dilated in fear.

_O-otou-sama? H-he's back already? No, it can't be him. He said he wouldn't be back until-_

"Yep," continued Yao, nodding his head at his own statement. "It's definitely Honda-sama,  _aru._ "

Kiku turned white as a sheet and unconsciously began trembling. If his father found him in here, in the dojo, where he was forbidden to be…

"You are going to be in a lot of trouble if he catches you here,  _aru,_ " said Yao with a contemplative look, verbalizing what Kiku was already thinking. "Soooo much trouble."

Kiku's eyes narrowed and as he peered up at the child who was pinning him, he noticed a mischievous, cunning look in the Chinese boy's eyes. Shaking his head rigorously, Kiku freed himself from Yao's smothering hand.

"What are you thinking Wang-san?" hissed Kiku, all previous respect and niceties replaced by annoyance and urgency. "What is it that you want?"

"A little brother,  _aru,"_ purred Yao, reaching up with one hand to flick some hair out of his face. "That's all. A little brother. Call me  _Nii-chan,_ let me train you and make you stronger. Let me teach you all of the languages I am learning, all of the things of the world that I know, and all of my skills. Be my little brother Kiku, join me in my quest for the world and I will cover for you. Because  _you may be a beloved and sheltered young master,_ but you won't make it to age eight if your father finds you in here."

Kiku wilted and fear jolted through his body, causing an unpleasant twinge in his stomach and a painful ache in his head. Wang-san was right. He had seen his  _otou-sama's_ anger before: It was terrifying. Simply horrible. The receiving party almost always ended up with injuries. Bad ones. Would that be Kiku's fate if he were to be discovered here?

"L-let me up!" squealed Kiku writhing wildly. He had to get away, had to get out of here, had to move before his Father discovered him in here…

"No,  _aru,"_ said Yao with a wicked grin, _"_ Not until you agree. I'll hold you here until your father comes. I'll tell him I caught you in here. You'll be in  _so much trouble."_

Kiku stared up at Yao in horror, tears filling up in his eyes at the unfairness of the situation.

Would Wang-san really do that? Would he really pin Kiku here until…

One look at the Chinese boy's cunning gold eyes gave Kiku his answer.

The Japanese youth wilted and he let out a panicked gasp as he heard the voices for the first time, echoing around the previously empty house.

_Oh no…_ moaned Kiku internally.  _He's here, Otou-sama, he's going to find me, he's going to be mad, oh no…._

The young boy clenched his eyelids shut, fighting back tears, before swallowing and meeting Yao's gaze with wide, resolved eyes.

Wang-san was strange. He was interesting and powerful, but strange. Much of what he said went right over Kiku's head. He didn't understand why the Chinese boy wanted him to be his brother so badly. He didn't understand how a ten-year-old had a high rank in the Yakuza. He didn't understand quite how he had gotten into this situation and he wasn't sure if he really trusted this Wang-san.

But right now Wang-san was his only hope for survival.

Right now, Yao- _niichan_  was his only hope for survival.

"P-please cover for me," stammered Kiku, large brown eyes meeting Yao's small amber-coloured ones. "Please cover for me Yao- _nii_."

Yao's face broke out into a wide grin and he leapt off of the Japanese youth, clapping his hands together excitedly and practically skipping towards the door of the dojo.

"Of course  _otouto,_ " he purred, twirling in a circle, "Anything, anything. I'm so happy,  _aru_! My cute little Kiku-kun. Finally, I finally have someone. Finally."

Kiku sat up slowly, looking with wide eyes as Yao continued talking and laughing to himself, a huge, giddy smile plastered across his face. It seemed as if the world had become a brighter place to the ten-year-old, and every step he took resonated with uncontained joy. Kiku watched the display with rapt attention, confused as to why calling him  _nii-chan_ had elicited such a reaction from Yao.

Yao skipped to the door, still grinning, smirking, and laughing. As the Chinese youth reached the entrance, he looked over his shoulder, eyes suddenly dark and his happy expression fading.

"I've been alone for a long time,  _aru,_ " he said, voice somber, "Being a child prodigy has its disadvantages. I need someone, badly. I can't do this myself. Thank you, Kiku. Thank you so much. You won't regret this. I'll be the best, most powerful  _Nii-chan_  in the world. Just you wait."

Yao pushed the door open, returning his gaze to the front. As he stepped through he inclined his head to the side slightly, leaving Kiku with one last parting phrase.

"I promise I'll make you more powerful than anyone in your family has ever been before. We'll build a new world together, you and I."

And with that, Yao left the dojo, the swishing sound of his oversized  _yukata_ fading into the distance.

Kiku sat in silence for a few moments, staring at the open door with a slightly dazed expression. Slowly, the Japanese youth got to his feet, shaking his head as he did. Quickly, Kiku ran through the dojo door, looking fearfully from side to side to make sure that no one was coming down the hallway from either direction. The coast clear, Kiku stepped through and slid the door behind him shut quietly. As he entered the hallway he became more aware of the voices echoing around the house. The Honda residence was never a quiet place; there were always people in it. His father preferred to keep his affairs close to him, and did not have a 'private' estate separate from his business quarters. As such, whenever his father was in the house, so were several of his associates, subordinates, partners, and the like. The house was never quiet. Today had been an anomaly.

Kiku let out a sigh, turning and walking down the hallway with quick little footsteps.

Today had been…a day he wished to forget. It had been a bad day. He had disobeyed his father, something he had never done before. He had met an extremely important, extremely unpredictable individual. And he had agreed to take on the role of younger brother to that individual.

Why had he done that?

_It doesn't matter,_ thought Kiku with a shake of his head.  _I probably won't meet Wang-san again. Otou-sama is rarely out of the house, and he never lets me interact with his subordinates alone. I don't know why Wang-san was allowed near me today, but it won't happen again. It can't._

Kiku paused, looking back over his shoulder as if expecting to see Yao's cunning, unusual eyes staring back at him.

… _What have I gotten myself into?_

**/** /

Chapter 3: The deepest holes are the ones you dig for yourself, regardless of your intentions. Good luck to you, Arthur. And to everyone around you.

 

 

                                                                                                                 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the characterizations of characters in this will be 'dark' characterizations. So Yao is Dark!China. Kiku is also Dark!Japan, but you won't see that side of him for a few chapters. (note, I said 'Dark'. Not 2P. ) 
> 
> Also, I'm taking some liberties with the structure of the Yakuza. So, um, if you happen to know how the Yakuza actually works, don't expect this to be completely accurate.
> 
> Also, I know it can be annoying for some people to have other languages in fanfiction, so if you really want me to stop inserting Japanese in, I will. But for a language like Japanese I think it's sometimes necessary. For example, Kiku introduces himself with 'Watashi' and Yao introduces himself with 'Ore'. Watashi is more polite and formal, whereas Ore is more assertive and masculine. And I think a lot of the translated words are words most people know as anime fans anyways. 
> 
> Regardless, if you want me to lay back on the Japanese translations, then I will.


	3. And the only solution was to stand and fight

_Chapter 3_

_"And the only solution **was to stand and fight."**_

-Only if for a Night,  **Florence + the Machine**

 

**London, England- January 2012**

It was raining, as usual. A light drizzle that was shadowing the city in a canopy of gray, and slicking the streets just enough to warrant caution. A haze hung over everything, though the sky itself was not too overcast, and the layer of cloud was just thin enough for the brightness of the sun behind it to poke through.

A morning in London was always the same, even after all these years.

Arthur's head rested against the cool glass, hand clenching and unclenching into his pantleg, scrunching up the fabric. His eyes were narrowed as he watched the city whiz by through the window, the crowded streets and tightly packed buildings coldly familiar. London was unchanging for the most part, just like him. Additions might be made, things would be stripped away, but the essence would always remain the same.

Arthur peeled his forehead off of the window, and let it thud back against the headrest, his jaw clenching as he stared up at the ceiling, mind racing with simmering memories and decade-old hurts.

_Eighty-four years since they started this…_ thought Arthur to himself, eyes still narrowed,  _Eighty-four years since I got involved…Seventy-five years since it all went to hell…And only seventeen years since that bastard took everything._

He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, and clenched both his hands into fists, ignoring the sting of pain as his nails dug into the flesh of his palms.

Arthur had been in hiding, licking his wounds, biding his time, and laying low for all these long years. He had been forced to fall completely off the radar while that… _damnable_ man had stepped straight into the limelight, pulling the carpet right from underneath Arthur's legs, whilst laughing.  _Laughing._

But that was okay. China might have won the battle, but England had won many battles before that, and he would be the one to win the war.

And it would all end where their deadly game had truly begun.

Buying out the company had pretty much been sending a direct challenge to China, and the man was sure to have seen it. He'd lit the fuse to start the war again after the seventeen-year respite, and he had to be prepared to fight hard to make sure he won, once and for all.

Arthur was jolted out of his thoughts as the car lurched upwards, signifying the lift up the curb to drive the steep incline of the driveway. He hadn’t been to his London house in a few weeks, preferring to stay in his mansion in the Cotswolds when he could afford to conduct business entirely from home. But he had a meeting today, and beyond that, his current venture would warrant him making more public appearances, more statements. Making sure that _that damnable man_ got the message. Moving his base of operations to London made the most sense.

Arthur stopped his inner musings as the car rolled to a stop, and a servant rushed forward to open the car door for him. As the young man stepped out, he flashed the servant a brief look of irritation at not having had an umbrella ready.  _(_ It  _was_ raining and as an aristocrat Arthur was entitled to those sorts of things.)

Somewhat put-out, Arthur walked up the walkway connecting the driveway to the front door, shaking his head to rid his hair of the gathering drops of water. Now he was in  _quite_ the mood. He hated getting his head wet. His hair was a mess on the best of days, which did not suit his image at all, and adding moisture to it just made it a hundred times worse.

_At least I don't have anywhere to go today. None of those foolish charity balls, or galas, or the like. Bloody hell, I miss when 'Mr. Kirkland' was a recluse and didn't have to show his dazzling smile to get business deals. Who knew the easiest way to get a man to secure a deal was to seduce his wife?_

A smirk danced across Arthur's lips at those thoughts, and he shook his head in rueful amusement at the continued foolishness of men. Rich men in particular.

As he reached the end of the walkway the front door swung open, and a young maid gave him a quiet nod, standing ready with a small white towel. A flash of irritation spiked through Arthur at the sight, and he scowled slightly as he stepped into the mansion.

_Really, why the towel when the bloody driver could have just brought a sodding umbrella?_

"Good morning, Mr. Kirkland," greeted the maid with a curtsy, not meeting Arthur's eyes as he took the towel and roughly ran it over his damp hair. The young man made a nondescript noise in response before wiping his shoes on the mat and continuing into the house. Thoughts of things like charity balls, business deals, and maintaining appearances bled away from his mind as he began focusing on the more pressing matter. A war was about to begin, and it was imperative that he and all of his soldiers were ready and willing. His hands clenched into fists as he began to plan.

_I suppose the first thing to do is try and contact everyone,_ thought Arthur somewhat grimly, his mouth in a thin line as he walked down the hallway towards his study.  _I'm sure I can find Hong Kong with ease, so I can contact him last. Seychelles will be harder, but I'm sure she-_

"Arthuuur!"

… _And Australia's already here._

The door to Arthur's study banged open and a rolling chair flew out of it, banging into the opposing wall and causing several of the pictures to rattle precariously. Sitting in the chair with his chest pressed against the back and his long legs dangling over the sides was a wild-looking man with a foolish grin on his face, appearing to be about the same age as Arthur.

"Arthur!" exclaimed the man jubilantly, waving enthusiastically while pushing the chair down the hallway with his legs. "G'day coz! It's been awhile, eh?” His crooked grin widened, and Arthur’s surprised, mildly irritated expression melted away into a slight smile, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

“Aye, it has,” agreed Arthur, looking at the man with genuine fondness, “It’s good to see you again, Joey.”

Arthur hadn’t seen Joey Sanders for almost ten years, and the sight of his cousin was enough to quell some of the nervousness and anxiety churning in his stomach. The familiar muscled form, with long limbs and a mess of unruly hair. Pale green eyes, shimmering with mirth and playfulness, but with an undercurrent of intimidation and danger. All the exact same as they had been the last time Arthur saw him. It was reassuring to see them again now, with the tentative armistice period coming to an end. Joey had been with Arthur through some of his worsts moments, and had never faltered in giving him a hand of support. Just looking at his face, unchanged by time, was enough to bring a flood of memories cascading upon Arthur, and he breathed in deeply, running his fingers through his hair and leaning against the wall.

“This is unexpected,” said Arthur, regarding his cousin with one eyebrow raised, “Not that you’re unwelcome, of course, but what prompted you to drop in announced like this?”

Joey tilted his head to the side, his grin still in place, but his eyes heavily hooded, “Y’serious mate? ‘ow could I sit and twiddle me fingers back home once I heard you were treading on Chinaman’s tootsies again?”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed sharply, and Joey sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the chair to hop to his feet and saunter towards his cousin with his hands stuffed into his pockets. His smile had gone. In its place was an actual serious look, eyes searching and pensive with his entire body tense. Arthur's gaze hardened in response, and he met Joey's evenly.

"So," said the Australian, the joking tone gone from his voice, "Russia."

Arthur hesitated for a few seconds, searching his cousin’s expression for signs of disapproval or excitement. But Joey’s face was a blank mask, and Arthur turned his own gaze away, allowing a small, humourless smirk to curl his lips upwards.

"Aye," he replied cooly, "It's time."

Joey stared at Arthur for a few more seconds, expression still unreadable, before he turned his gaze to the floor with a sigh, removing his hands from his pockets to place them behind his head.

"Crikey," said the man with a dry laugh, "I'll never understand what's so great about the place that it's got you and China always at each other's throats over it. Russia. It's always Russia." Joey shook his head ruefully, turning his eyes back towards Arthur with his brows knitted tightly together. Arthur stiffened slightly under the scrutinizing look, and he glared back challengingly, some of the earlier anxiety returning to churn in his stomach.

Yes, he had missed his cousin. Yes, Joey had stood with him through the roughest times. But Arthur wasn’t a fool. He knew that while Joey supported him, he was no longer as eager for revenge and retribution as he once had been. This war had been brutal, and had taken a toll on all of them. The last time the family had all met together, it had been violent, emotional, and messy. They had split up on horrible terms, and Arthur wasn’t sure of the reaction he would get when calling them back into action. Even Joey, who had been with him from the beginning, had begun looking doubtful when they had last parted.

But he was here now, wasn’t he? Joey had flown up all the way from Australia, before Arthur had even called him. And that had to mean he was going to continue to lend his support, whatever the cost.

The tense silence was broken as Joey sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead and closing his eyes.

"Shit, are you sure about this Arthur?” he asked, opening one eye with a grimace, “It got really bad last time, really bad, and it will only get worse this time around.”

Arthur’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, before narrowing angrily, his teeth gritting together tightly.

“You can’t honestly be suggesting I leave things as they are, Joey,” he growled lowly, his eyes smouldering as he glared at his cousin, “Leave it like it is, with us beaten back into the shadows while China gloats in the sun? Leave it with him having won the last round; his success rubbed in my face at every turn, since he and that bloody ‘company’ of his have become the spokesperson for big business and prosperity? Leave it like _this,_ with him ruling over Asia and East Europe and with a hand in all of the business that used to belong to _us?_ Leave it with my father _still_ unavenged? Leave it like _that,_ Joey? Is _that_ what you’re asking me to do?”

A vicious edge cut into Arthur’s voice as he spat the last question out at his cousin, and Joey grimaced, both eyes now open as he met the other’s man gaze with steady, flinty eyes.

“I know all of what that bloke did,” he replied lowly, his voice steady and sharp, “I was there too, remember? I haven’t forgotten. And don’t _you_ forget that we’re cousins, Arthur. The only legit blood relations in our convoluted mess of a family. So don’t bring Uncle into this as if I don’t care. Of course I bloody care.”

Arthur’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t speak, his gaze still steely. Joey exhaled heavily, shifting from one foot to the other and lowering his gaze, once again running his fingers through his hair. He let out a short, humourless laugh, his mouth twisting up into a bitter smirk as he lifted his eyes upwards towards the ceiling with another heavy sigh, shaking his head ruefully.

“ ‘Are you sure, Arthur?’” he repeated with a snort, “God, that was a stupid bloody question wasn’t it? Of course you’re sure. You’re always sure when it comes to that bastard. You haven’t hesitated in decades.”

“Is that a criticism?” asked Arthur, his voice still coloured with a dangerous note. Joey merely let out a huff of laughter, grim smile back in place as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall.

“Criticism? Never,” he replied with a shake of his head. “I’m in no place to judge. All our hands are stained with the decisions we’ve made, and there’s no sense in backtracking now. We’re too far gone in this bloody game to even consider hesitation as an option,” his lopsided grin darkened slightly as his eyes narrowed and his voice dropped to a more a serious tone. “Don’t doubt that I’m with you, Arthur. I might be inclined to play Devil’s advocate every once in awhile, but I’ll always stand beside you in this fight.”

A few seconds of silence hung in the air between them, before Arthur unclenched his fists and stood down slightly. He closed his eyes briefly before sighing heavily, leaning one arm against the wall as he finally dropped his gaze away from his cousin.

"I know," he whispered hoarsely, poorly suppressed emotion causing his tone to quaver, "I know."

Joey watched his cousin carefully; relaxing as he saw Arthur's temper calm into a more subdued anger, the aggression fading into a lingering tenseness. Satisfied, he relaxed himself, shifting from foot to foot with restlessness and allowing a genuine smile to chase some of the seriousness off of his face.

"Good," said the Australian, turning towards the other man with his eyes twinkling, "I'd hate to think you were considering yourself alone in this little crusade after all of these years. I mean, crikey! How long has it actually been?"

Arthur looked up; straightening out of his leaning position and turning so that his back was now against the wall. Most of his anxiety had been calmed by Joey’s words, and all he was left with was a heavy sense of grim nostalgia and anticipation as he considered the many, many years that their war had been waging. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head ruefully.

“Long,” he said grimly, brows knitting together as his expression darkened. “Very, very long.”

"And it begins anew!" exclaimed Joey, spreading his arms wide and pushing himself up off of the wall. "So tell me, cuz, where do we go from here? I flew all the way up from Down Under because I knew you wouldn't go pulling a stunt like movin' into Russia without bringin' in all the big guns. Will the whole gang be comin' up? Are we  _really_ going to go at it again?" The Australian’s entire demeanor had returned to the excited, playful one he had first exhibited when he had first exited the study. His stance had melted back into an agitated one, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, rocking back and forth on his heels, his entire body thrumming with excitement. The grin on his face was almost unsettling, made worse by the almost manic intensity in his eyes.

Arthur hesitated for a moment, eyebrows still knitted together. Slowly, a small, dark smirk began quirked his lips upwards, and he folded his arms across his chest, something dangerous and eager glittering in his eyes.

"Yes, we're  _going at it,_ as you say, once more,” he affirmed, tilting his head to the side as he regarded his cousin, “Seventeen years is a bit long to sit cooling our heels, is it not? I'm sure you've been dreadfully bored wrestling crocodiles and the like," teased Arthur, still with that dangerous, dark look.

Joey threw back his head and laughed at the comment.

"You bet, mate! Nothin' compares to tusslin' with that Viet Sheila. Let me tell you, it's thinking about going hand to hand with her again that gets m'blood boiling. What a fighter!" reminisced Joey, looking upwards with a faraway, yet murderous look in his eyes.

"Indeed," agreed Arthur, the smile still on his lips, but his eyes no longer focused on Joey, his gaze fixed in the distance, on some long-gone memory. Joey watched his cousin carefully, his jovial mood flickering as his eyes drifted around the empty hallway slowly, and then moved back to Arthur.

"…Am I the only one?" he asked, his tone still light-hearted, but his posture tense once more and his eyes hooded.

Arthur snapped back to attention, his eyes narrowing and his lips tightening, some of the colour going out of his face.

"The…the  _first_ one," corrected the Englishman, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded across his chest and his gaze averted, "I was about to begin contacting Seychelles. Hong Kong will be easy to find, he's still in England." He kept his eyes away from Joey, and the Australian didn't reply for a few seconds, his expression unreadable and his mouth twitching as if he really wanted to say something, but was holding it back.

Finally, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"And Ma-Canada?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

Arthur's entire body stiffened, and he swallowed thickly, still not meeting Joey’s gaze as he drummed his fingers along his arm nervously. "Canada…is…wherever Canada is."

"Y'still don't know where 'e is?" exclaimed Joey, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.

Arthur made a huffing sound, and angled his head slightly towards his cousin, meeting his gaze briefly before closing his eyes and turning his face to the side. "That question was worded in an improper manner. I couldn't tell you  _where he is at this exact moment._ But if I wished to, I could find him. Don’t doubt that for an instant."

Joey looked at his cousin warily, before huffing out a sigh and scuffing the ground with his shoe. "I hope you're tellin' the truth, mate," he said scratching at his head with one hand, "'Cause let me tell you, I ain't goin' into no scuffle without knowin' that Canada's somewhere in the rafters, shooting at the enemy with one eye closed and his hands behind his back."

Arthur's eyebrow quirked upwards at the description and he huffed again, keeping his head turned to the side. "That's an exaggeration Joey. And don't worry; Canada will be here.  _Everyone_ will be."

_Everyone._

Each and every member of the family that he had assembled over the course of ten tumultuous years. From the time he first inherited the Kirkland Company, to the time of that fateful, lifechanging meeting in Russia. Six members in all, each with unique, deadly talents, and an irreplaceable role in their organization.

There was himself, of course. Arthur Kirkland, alias, England. The head of their small organization and the one who had brought them all together in the first place. His cousin, Joey Sanders, alias, Australia. The man who had been with him right from the beginning, pushing aside his loyalty to his own Father to stand beside Arthur through his darkest times. Rajni, a former servant in his father’s household who had proved irreplaceable in providing Arthur with information about criminal dealings, and who was a terrifyingly intelligent strategist. He was a hard man to read, and his motives often seemed hazy, but he was an integral part of their organization, nonetheless. Then there were Maddox and Angelique. The two youngsters that they had picked up along the way. Angelique had saved Arthur's life way back when he had first taken control of his Father's company, and he had felt indebted to her and taken her off the streets she was working. She had proven herself quite the resourceful fighter and spy and had officially joined the elite of the organization quite quickly. Then there was Maddox. The circumstances behind the teenager joining Arthur's family were complicated and rather rocky. But the Chinese boy held no loyalty towards his former Big Brother and, if nothing else, was willing to follow Arthur if it meant getting back at the man who had abandoned him.

Then, there was Canada, Matthew Kirkland. His adopted little brother. Arthur had met Matthew when he was eight, and the other boy was only six or so. It had been quite the shock at the time. When his Father had left for America, Arthur had expected him to return with toys and treats, not two new-

Arthur stopped his train of thought, a painful twinge going through his chest as his memory conjured up the image of a young blonde teenager with big blue eyes and a wide, all encompassing smile.

_Whatever else, Artie, I'll always be your brother, and I'll always be here for you!_

"Arthur? Y'all right, mate?"

Arthur snapped his head to the side, eyes immediately narrowing and his eyebrows knitting together in their standard pensive expression.

"Of course I'm alright," he snapped before forcing a smirk onto his face. "I'm about to stick it to China once and for all. Why wouldn't I be alright?" The words sounded hollow, even to his ears. The anxiety had returned to once more roll around in his stomach, and even though it had been years, _decades,_ that particular memory, of that particular person, still sucker punched him.

Joey didn’t seem to be buying it either, looking at Arthur with a doubtful, somewhat apologetic expression on his face. "My bad, mate," he replied, his tone uncharacteristically soft, "You just had your 'I'm thinking about Alfred right now' face on so…-,"

Silence fell upon the hallway, the only sound coming from the shaking pictures hanging on the wall. Both men were utterly still, Arthur with his fist still dented in the wall beside Joey’s face, and Joey standing tensed with his lips pressed into a thin line.

Joey's expression hadn't wavered as he'd seen Arthur's fist speeding towards him, nor had it shaken when the man punched the wall beside his face, and he maintained this impassive expression, even as a trembling picture finally gave way and fell atop of his head.

"Now, now, Arthur," said the Australian somewhat admonishingly, breaking the silence. "Was there really any reason to go and punch the wall like that? I think you cracked the plaster. And you were in a tiff about me leaving a few scratches on the floor…"

"Don't…" began Arthur, ignoring Joey’s chastising comments and speaking haltingly through tightly clenched teeth. "Don't say his name…you know that…don't say it…just don't…"

Arthur withdrew his hand from the wall, leaving behind a smear of blood on the plaster and torn skin across his knuckles. The man frowned at the sight and watched gloomily as the blood flew off the wall to return to his hand, the skin stitching itself back together and the wounds healing completely in a matter of seconds.

"Too bad the wall can't do that. It'll be a bitch to fix," commented Joey dryly, moving away from the wall and staring at the plaster ruefully. The Australian then turned back to his cousin, looking a little sorry, but mostly contemplative. "You alright now, coz? If I recall, we have some calls to make. People who are in our family  _now._ "

Arthur flexed his fingers experimentally before nodding, a smouldering light in his eyes. "Aye," said the Englishman, his voice flinty and determined. "Let us concentrate on the present, and the future."

The look that Joey gave him wasn’t one of approval, but a guarded, almost apprehensive one. The brunette licked his lips, averting his gaze and shifting from one foot to the other.

"Arthur," he began slowly, turning his head to the side to return his eyes to his cousin, "Are you sure that the others…contacting them is one thing, but convincing them to fight again…we didn't all part on the best of terms-,"

"That's inconsequential!" snapped Arthur, his hands clenched into fists and his face both angry and pained. "We…we are a family. We fight sometimes, but we always come through for each other in the end.” He took a deep breath, his chest and head aching with the swell of memories that had just crashed into them. Most of them bad. Most of them painful. But some. Some good. Some filled with the feeling of being surrounded by others, supported by others, held up by others.

“And that's all there is to it,” he concluded firmly, his voice just a little bit hoarse.

Joey didn't reply immediately, the Australian staring at the younger man with his lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, after a few tense minutes, he sighed and sagged against the wall again. "So it's time? We start making calls and get this shindig underway?"

Arthur's eyes hardened and he nodded, shooting a slightly strained smirk at his cousin as he did.

"Our time is now."

**Cavendish, England- January 2012**

"Do you think spring's coming early this year?"

Xiang blinked, slowly turning his gaze towards the young girl beside him. She was staring up at him with large green eyes and an innocent expression on her face. The teenage boy stared at her for a few moments, before shrugging casually.

"It's still only January," he said dully, adjusting his hold on the umbrella that was shielding them both. "The rain doesn't, like, mean anything."

"But it's rather warm out," protested Heidi, pulling on the thin jacket that she had chosen that morning, choosing not to wear a winter jacket for the uncharacteristically mild day. "And it would be nice if spring started early."

"It would be nice," agreed Xiang, peering out at the gray England sky. "But spring doesn't start in January," the boy paused before adding, as an afterthought: "At least, not in England."

Heidi's eyes widened and her hand reached up to tug on the boy's sleeve.

"Xiang," she said, eyes wide and inquiring, "You've been to places other than England, right?"

Xiang's eyes flickered towards the young girl. His impassive expression remained the same, but his body tensed slightly. "Hn," he grunted, nodding slightly in response to the question whilst angling his head to side. He felt Heidi's grip tighten on his sleeve and sighed inwardly. Clearly, Heidi's interest was piqued, and that meant she would be persistent in pursuing an answer from him. A sense of dread settled on the Chinese boy as he resigned himself to become subject to Heidi's questions until her curiosity was satisfied. The thirteen-year-old could be quite stubborn when she wanted to be and had an insatiable desire to know as much about Xiang as possible.

Xiang tensed further, turning his head completely away from his foster sister and his grip on the umbrella tightening.

If there was one truly troubling thing about his current situation it was Heidi's need to know everything about his past. The standard 'I don't remember anything before Foster Care' did not work with the little girl, or her brother. In fact, The Zwinglis were the first family that ever knew that Xiang had been outside of England. And in addition to that, Heidi had somehow managed to get him to reveal that he had had two older brothers that he had lived with at separate times, neither of which he had gotten along with.

While the amount of information that the siblings had was so vague and un-detailed that it's revelation was not  _that_ troublesome a matter, it was the principle that bothered Xiang.

Never in his long, long, life, had he ever given out information that he hadn't wanted to. He had been subjected to torture, mental and physical, of the worst kind, and he had never broken, not once. Ever.

And yet, Heidi's persistence, and her sweet face, had revealed chinks that Xiang hadn't known his previously impenetrable armour had. It was disconcerting. Worrisome. It seemed the year that he had spent with the Zwinglis had sanded off some of his hard-earned edges.

He was going soft.

Xiang shifted his position slightly, eyes flickering towards the girl standing beside him.

Heidi and Vash…they were…nice people. Yes. They were nice people. That in itself was enough of a surprise to take some of the edge off of the Chinese boy. This wasn't his first run through the foster system, and never before had he found a family so tolerant of a teenage boy. A particularly apathetic teenage boy. When he had first arrived with the pair he hadn't expected much. Heidi, if the small profile that the caretakers had given him at the home was to be considered, was perhaps the perfect little girl. Perfect grades, pleasant demeanor and apparently did everything her brother said. Vash was a bit rougher. A police officer, strict, no nonsense, somewhat freakishly devoted to his sister. The two of them seemed to be the perfect family unit, and Xiang doubted his intrusion would last long. Perfectly family units tended not to like imperfect additions. Altruism could only take you so far.

He had given himself a month, tops. They had seemed like they would be stubborn enough to try and  _force_ the arrangement to work. For a while at least.

But it had lasted longer than a month. Vash was strangely tolerant of Xiang's indifference and monotone one-word sentences while Heidi seemed to find delight in trying to get him to talk or get him to play games with her.

His normal defense, apathy, did not work.

And soon he had found himself getting progressively more integrated into the family. Helping Heidi with her homework, going with Vash on patrol some nights. Attending holidays and celebrations with them and meeting Heidi after school to wait for Vash to pick them up together.

Like he was actually part of the family.

And it had been continuing over the past year. This…integration. His edges were being sanded down. It was scary. He no longer checked all possible exits the moment he entered a room. He no longer ensured that there was  _something_ nearby that he could use as a weapon. He no longer regarded everyone around him as a potential enemy. He no longer tried to estimate what the most flammable object in the area was and how much it would take to cause it to explode.

Because Heidi said he always looked too serious and should try smiling at people and places instead of dissecting them with his eyes.

He didn't smile, but he stopped dissecting. And thus, stopped assessing, leaving himself wide open to potential attacks.

But a growing part of him didn't care.

And it was all her fault.

Xiang's eyes flickered towards the girl. She was looking out into the distance with a pout, clearly displeased with Xiang's lack of an answer. She wasn't prodding as much as she usually did, probably because her mind was on other things.

Xiang's eyes drifted downwards towards his wrist. He lifted his arm, and the overlong sleeve of his dark brown sweater slid back, revealing a simple watch.

"What time is it?" asked Heidi, moving closer to peer at the other teen's watch.

"It's, like, almost four," answered Xiang, his standard monotone coloured slightly by the casual way he spoke. "He's late."

Heidi's pout became more pronounced and she sighed, leaning her head against Xiang's shoulder wearily. The Chinese boy stiffened for a brief moment before relaxing and adjusting the umbrella to ensure that it covered both of them. He stared upwards in silence, listening to the soft pattering of the rain against the sidewalk and the umbrella. After a moment he turned his gaze back down towards Heidi, and he felt his gaze soften as he saw her with her eyes closed, dozing softly against her adoptive big brother.

_You infuriate me…I don't understand it…_ thought Xiang, struggling against the conflicting feelings curdling in his chest and clenching his fists.  _What have you done to me? I shouldn't be…_

Xiang raised his free hand, ghosting it slightly over Heidi's forehead, brushing back her straw-coloured bangs with a gentleness he shouldn't have possessed.

_You've ruined me. In just a short year, you've ruined me._

**_BEEP!_ **

Both teens jumped at the sound of a loud car horn beeping obnoxiously. Heidi jolted upwards with a start, rubbing her eyes and peering out from under the umbrella. Xiang shook his head slightly, tilting back the umbrella to get a better view of what was in front of him.

Vash's police cruiser sat in front of them, close to the curb with the blonde staring at them through the window on the driver's side. Xiang hastily dropped the hand that was still hanging in the air, nudging the still dazed Heidi slightly.

"Vash is here," he said gently, gesturing towards the car with his head. The young girl blinked before smiling widely and rushing out from underneath the umbrella towards the car.

"Brüder!" she called happily, her Germanic accent more prominent as she exclaimed, leaning down to kiss her brother's cheek as he rolled down the window. "Where were you? I was worried!"

"Sorry I'm late," apologized Vash gruffly, his cheeks taking on a rosy hue. "Get in the car Heidi, I don't want you to be out in the rain any longer. We can talk once you're warm and dry."

Heidi smiled happily and laughed before skipping towards the backseat. Vash watched her, blushing, before turning his gaze back towards Xiang, who was still standing on the sidewalk. Vash raised an eyebrow at the Chinese teenager, who stared blankly at him.

_It's not just Heidi…_ thought Xiang, hands tightening once more as he walked towards the car, moving around to pause in front of the backdoor on the opposite side. He lifted his gaze, staring through the window at Vash.

_You're at fault too Vash. Why do you care so much?_

He shook his head slightly as he closed the umbrella, shivering at the sudden onslaught of cold water. He opened the door and slid into the car, dropping the umbrella onto the floor and shedding his backpack before closing the door behind him.

Vash turned his head to cast the boy a curious look from the driver's seat before pressing on the gas pedal and pulling away from the curb.

"Big Brüder," began Heidi, shaking her damp bangs away from her face, "Why were you late?"

Vash tensed in his seat and rubbed the back of his head anxiously.

"Ah…something came up at work. Nothing major. Just a small time robbery at a convenience store, but I got called in anyways. Some staff went home early, so we were short on people."

"Oh no! Someone was robbed!" exclaimed Heidi, distraught. "Mr. Kane owns the convenience store, doesn't he? Is he alright?"

Xiang turned his head towards the window, the conversation between the two siblings dulling to a quiet buzz in his ears.

Cavendish was such a small town. Things like robbery caused a huge stir, whereas a natural death had the whole community coming out in droves to offer their condolences to the family and to mourn together in the street. Everyone was very close, and everyone knew each other by name.

There hadn't been a murder here yet.

Xiang flexed his hands, staring down at them pensively.

_And yet, here I sit, a murderer, in the back of the police chief's car._

Xiang blinked, and his mouth quirked upwards, almost into a smile.

_Irony in its purest form._

"-your day? Xiang? Xiang, are you listening?"

The Chinese boy blinked and slowly turned his head away from the window, looking into the rearview mirror to meet Vash's intense gaze.

"Sorry?" asked Xiang, tilting his head to the side and pushing his thoughts away to pay attention to his surroundings.

"I asked," said Vash with a slight huff, dropping his gaze to once again focus on the slick roads in front of him. "How was your day?"

"Oh," responded Xiang dully, shrugging slightly. "It was fine."

"Xiang!" teased Heidi, reaching over to pinch the boy's cheek, "You know that doesn't cut it."

Xiang stared back at the girl blankly and, much to his horror, found himself fighting back a smile. He turned his face away from her abruptly, covering his mouth with his sleeve and with his cheeks rapidly colouring.

_I need to stop this._

"It really was fine," he repeated, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. "A very average day. Wet. Rather wet. But we're in England so," he ended his statement with a shrug, averting the gaze's of the other people in the car.

"Better," laughed Heidi, sliding closer to her adoptive brother.

"We'll go easy on you this time," added Vash, once again staring at Xiang through the rearview mirror, "But next time, that weak answer isn't going to cut it."

Xiang blinked and slapped his other hand across his mouth, feeling the beginnings of a short chuckle beginning to build in his throat.

_No, no, no. I draw the line here. I will_ not  _laugh._

Much to his relief, Vash turned his gaze downwards and reached over to turn on the radio. Heidi sat back in her seat, kicking her feet slightly and humming happily to herself. It was weird, how much they enjoyed getting him to talk, even just a little. He used to get in trouble for talking too much. All of his back-talk, stupid jokes, sarcastic quips and outright mockery. Now his new ‘family’ practically threw a party whenever he spoke more than a sentence.

Xiang sighed and fell back against the seat, feeling very drained and yet, strangely giddy.

… _I need to leave. If I include the year I spent in that Boys’ Home, it's been two years. It's time to move on. I haven't aged. People will start to notice. I need to-_

Xiang's thoughts ended abruptly as the part of his brain that was listening to the surrounding sounds jolted in alarm. His gaze turned sharply towards the radio and he leaned forward, a hand on the driver's seat.

"Turn that up," he commanded, body tense and a sick feeling culminating in his stomach. His gaze flickered towards the policeman and he added: "Please."

Vash’s eyes narrowed slightly as he met Xiang’s gaze through the rearview mirror, before snorting with a shake of his head and reaching over to turn up the volume. Xiang fell backwards onto his seat, clutching the cloth of his pants tightly as he listened.

"-are not sure what to make of this. The Kirkland Company has expanded greatly in the last couple of years, but to be pushing so far into the unstable region of Russia has many people talking."

"I think other businesses are feeling threatened. Russia, however messed up the country is, is a very profitable business venture, if you know how to do it right, and to have such a green businessman moving into it…"

"People are most definitely going to feel threatened. Arthur Kirkland might be in for some trouble."

"More on that later. Now, for the weather-,"

Xiang stared ahead blankly, his entire body trembling.

… _into Russia? England is…._

"Brüder, I didn't understand that," pouted Heidi, leaning forward slightly to peer at Vash. "What was that all about?"

"Those foolish businessmen in London," snorted Vash, waving his hand airily, "Nothing for us to be concerned about, don't worry." The words didn’t reach Xiang, however. The Chinese teenager was frozen in shock, his heart thudding in his chest as he replayed the radio broadcast over and over in his head.

' _Arthur Kirkland might be in for some trouble',_ he repeated in his mind, thoughts whirling, stomach twisting and churning.  _Some trouble? He's publicly moving into_ Russia. _China will-_

Xiang clenched his fists tighter, and he could feel his nails digging into his palms, blood welling up in the small wounds he was creating. He couldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t calm the rapid thudding of his heart. Just like that, the web of normalcy, of domesticity, that he had allowed to be woven around him was unraveling. Coming apart. Breaking down. Because if England was moving, if England was going into Russia…

"Xiang?" asked Heidi, leaning over to place her hand gently on his arm. "Are you alright? You look a little funny."

Xiang barely registered the girl's words. He was concentrating on not panicking, on forcing his thoughts to be rational, logical, detached. Of assessing the situation from a calm perspective. But it was like he had forgotten how. His mind was a whir of panic. Xiang felt the wounds on his palms heal, the leaking blood retracting back in, and he squeezed harder, feeling the warm liquid once again spill between his fingers.

_He's restarting the war. He's restarting the war. He's restarting the-_

"XIANG!"

The Chinese boy jumped at the loud exclamation from the front seat, and he unclenched his hands, flecks of blood flying off of them as he did.

"Your hands!" exclaimed Heidi in horror, seeing the blood covering her adoptive brother's palms and fingers. "They're bleeding!" Xiang's eyes widened, and he looked down and cursed inwardly, hiding his hands under his armpits.

"It's nothing," he insisted, already feeling the blood pull back from his fingers and the wounds begin to close. "It's nothing, really. I think you saw the…reflective light from outside. My hands are fine."

"There's blood all over your fingers!" repeated Heidi, reaching over to try and tug Xiang's hands out from under his armpits.

"What's wrong?" asked Vash from the frontseat, looking anxiously into the rearview mirror with narrowed eyes. "Xiang? What's the matter with you today? What's going on?"

_Why do you care?_ Shouted Xiang inwardly, mind reeling from the radio broadcast and unable to take everything that was going around him. He continued resisting Heidi's attempts to tug out his hands, clenching his eyes shut.

"Heidi, I'm fine," hissed Xiang, gritting his teeth, "See?"

He removed his hands from under his arms, and showed them, palms upwards, to the young girl.

Heidi's expression went from worry, to confusion, to shock, as she took her brother's hands, staring at them closely.

"Wh-wha-?" she stammered, turning Xiang's palms over and spreading his fingers, examining them thoroughly, "I don't understand…"

"It was a trick of the light," said Xiang, relaxing and returning to his usual monotone before tugging his hands away and sitting back calmly. "I'm, like, fine."

Heidi sat back as well, her face creased in a frown, confusion and worry still very evident.

"So, what just happened?" asked Vash, eyebrows furrowed and looking extremely irritated.

"Nothing," answered Xiang quickly, "Heidi thought my hands were bleeding. But they're not. I'm fine. Everything's, like, fine."

"And before?" continued Vash, eyes narrowed, "When you were all freaked out."

Xiang stiffened. After a moment, he took a deep breath and swallowed, smoothing his face back into its usual apathetic expression. "I wasn't freaked out," he defended, turning his gaze back towards the window. "I'm fine."

An awkward silence descended on the small car, and relief soared through Xiang as Vash, after staring at Xiang for a few long seconds, begrudgingly returned his gaze to the road. Heidi kept her gaze on him for a bit longer, looking upset and a little angry, but after a minute or so, she turned her head towards her own window, still looking extremely concerned.

Xiang almost sighed in relief when he was finally free of their scrutinizing gazes, and he leaned his head against the cool glass, closing his eyes.

_He's restarting the war,_ he thought again, his thoughts calmer now. The initial panic had made its way through his system, and he was able to begin thinking the situation through rationally. 

_England is issuing a challenge to China by publicly moving into Russia, and that means he's restarting the war. That means…_

Xiang stiffened slightly, and he opened his eyes a crack, staring at the other two occupants of the car.

… _That means…_

Heidi turned to look at him, still worried, but she smiled brightly as she saw his gaze on her. Vash's eyes flickered towards the backseat, and he gave the boy a quick nod.

… _leaving?_

Xiang's eyes slipped shut again and he curled up on himself, trying to ignore the sudden painful thrumming in his chest.

_I was just thinking about how it was time to leave. This is the perfect time. And it's good that the war is restarting. I've been getting too soft. England will call for me soon, and I-_

Xiang flinched slightly at the jolt of pain that shot through his chest, and he scrunched his eyes shut, trying to ignore all the feelings whizzing through him.

_He'll call for me soon. He'll call for…Maddox. And then, and then Xiang will…_

… _I won't be Xiang anymore. I'm only Xiang here. I'll be…Maddox._

Xiang opened his eyes slowly and stared upwards, memories and feelings swirling through him and turning his mind into a mess of tumultuous thoughts.

_I'll be…Hong Kong._

 

**Shanghai, China- January 2012**

Victory could be measured in a number of ways. So could success.

Triumphing over your enemy numerous times, dealing them harsh blows, killing their family, destroying their home and eradicating their business could be considered a series of very decisive victories. And therefore, you could be considered successful for hitting them so brutally, so critically, so many times.

However, was it truly victory, or success, if that enemy kept bouncing back? If no matter what you threw at them, they would throw something equally as vicious back at you? If no matter how much you took from them they would use whatever they had left to try and grind you into dust? Was it victory if their spirit wasn't completely crushed?

And how could you know for certain when they were truly and utterly defeated? It wasn't enough to simply assume that an attack had crippled your enemy beyond recovery. When the person in question was immortal and couldn't die from either wounds or old age, the means with which you hurt them had to be a lot more creative and diverse.

More lasting methods included targeting things that weren't directly on your immortal opponent's body. Like cities where they had major investments and factories, and important companies that they dealt with. Stealing trading partners, taking over shares, bombing manufacturing plants, slowly bleeding them dry.

Fun stuff like that.

You would assume that after pounding an enemy so relentlessly it would be easy to declare them defeated. That when the last factory fell and they were publicly declared bankrupt, that you could say, once and for all, I win.

But it wasn't that simple.

It was  _never_ that simple.

So when England and his family disappeared off of the face of the Earth, leaving virtually no trace that they had ever existed, China hadn't automatically started celebrating. Because that would have been stupid.

And he was not a stupid man.

"Tea, Mr. Wang?"

Yao opened one eye slowly, lifting his head a fraction off the red cushion it was resting on. He eyed the small, antique cup sitting on the gold platter and the petite girl who was holding it, kneeling in front of him with her hair in neat twin buns and clad in a traditional serving dress. Her gaze was down as she presented the platter to him, and his eyes passed over her superficially before settling on the tea. He leaned forward slightly, sniffing the liquid experimentally. A slow smile spread across his face and he inhaled deeply, sighing in appreciation.

"Thank you," he purred, reaching out to gently pick the cup of the platter, "That's perfect."

The girl remained in front of him, kneeling with her gaze down and her hands still holding the platter. Yao raised the cup to his lips, before noticing her presence and narrowing his eyes.

"You can go," he said curtly, a bit of irritation leaking into his usually calm voice. The girl dipped the top half of her body into a bow before straightening up and hurrying away, opening the door silently and closing it with the same amount of quietness. Yao kept his gaze away, paying her no attention as he continued to eye the antique teacup, turning it slightly as he observed it. When the door closed he sank down into the soft, carefully placed cushions with a sigh, sipping the tea lightly. Yao let out an appreciative noise as the warm liquid touched his tongue, and he sank down deeper, his long traditional robe bunching around him and the overlong sleeves sliding back.

_It's amazing,_ he mused, as he took another sip, _how enriching a well-made cup of tea can be._

Yao took another drink before carefully placing the teacup on the ground and rolling onto his stomach, curling up on the plush pillows and sinking into the folds of his robes.

It was strange, being able to recline like this. Being able to react. His life had been a constant series of battles, of fights, of a struggle to get to the top and then to remain at the top. Every moment not spent fighting was spent planning, and any other moment was spent recovering from a hit. Figuring out how to hit back harder. The wars that he had fought had been treacherous, and to be able to lounge on silk cushions in a robe all day without fear or anxiety was…unnerving. Relaxing, but unnerving. He had spent too long fighting. It felt strange to be doing anything else.

And of course, there was the lingering fear- well, not fear. Rather, the lingering _expectation_ that he would hear from England soon. That there was no way the infuriating Brit would let things lie as they were. The stirrings from the old Kirkland Company that had been occurring over the past year or so were enough to attest to that. This was peace was an illusion, and one due to break at any moment.

Almost in a bored manner Yao picked up the small cell-phone that sat on a cushion beside his head, holding it upside down with a finger and his thumb and staring at it pensively.

"Come on now, ring," he murmured softly, eyes narrowed. "I've had a feeling lately, that something's going to happen. Ring for me, why don't you?"

The Chinese man continued staring at the small device, eyes narrowed. He lifted his head slightly and reached for the teacup with his free hand, never taking his eyes off of the mobile phone dangling in front of his face.

As he was bringing the cup to his mouth, the screen of the phone lit up.

A soft Chinese melody filled the air and the phone began to vibrate.

Yao grinned and set the teacup back down, rolling over onto his back as he flipped the device open, grin widening as he saw the caller ID.

_Oh? A call from you of all people?_ Mused the man, a pleased smirk replacing the grin.  _I'm never wrong. Something's happening. Finally._

Yao pulled the phone to his ear, rolling onto his other side as he did.

"Hello, aru?" he purred in Japanese, fiddling with the tassels on one of the cushions, "And who might this be?"

"... _Yao-san, you know who this is. And please, this is no time for jokes. Something serious has occurred."_

Yao smiled as he heard the familiar voice. The voice of his adopted younger brother, of his right hand man for the past 90 or so years. As usual, the voice was smooth, somewhat clipped, and serious. However, it was more agitated then usual, and Yao could practically  _feel_ the other man fretting from across the telephone line. He could almost visualize him pacing back and forth, pulling on his shirt in that worrisome manner of his.

_If_ he,  _of all people, is that agitated…_ "What's wrong, aru?" asked Yao, excitement and anticipating whirring underneath his skin. "What's going on?" his voice came out sounding breathless, entire body tense in anticipation.

It had just been  _so long_ since anything interesting had happened.

"… _Yao-san…it is England…_ "

Yao stiffened in his lying down position and he propped himself upwards on his elbows, eyes narrowed and free hand drawing circles on the pillow in front of him.

_Of course it is. I should have known._

"Oh, aru?" he answered, his voice bright and curious sounding. "And what has he been up to?"

There was a brief pause on the other line, and Yao hummed to himself nonchalantly, nails tearing through the thread of the silk pillows as he pressed harder and harder on the cloth. The man's grip on the phone tightened, but then relaxed, as there was finally an answer from the other side.

"… _You know that he restarted the Kirkland Company. Brought it back from bankruptcy. But they have just been in England. A few places in Western Europe, but nothing serious…He appeared to be trying to keep under the radar. That is why he has not been doing anything. We have not had any trouble-"_

"Kiku-kun," interrupted Yao, his voice flinty as he swung the phone back and forth in front of his face, clenching and unclenching his hand. "Get to the point,  _please,_ aru."

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few short moments, before Kiku speedily answered.

" _Hai. My apologies Yao-san. Arthur Kirkland has bought out a company in Russia."_

Silence occurred on both ends of the conversation, Kiku waiting with baited breath for his partner's response, and Yao…

The phone dangled from Yao's hand, his entire body frozen in place from the last sentence.

"… _Yao-san? Yao-san? Are you alright? Yao-san?"_

"…Kiku," murmured Yao, unfreezing and pushing himself upwards into a sitting position, pressing the phone to his ear. "What's with all the formality? I'm hurt, aru. Aren't I…"

The Chinese man smirked again, getting to his feet with a giddy feeling running through his body, a bounce in his step as he began walking the floor of the room.

"…Your big brother, aru? It's  _Yao-nii. China-_ nii.Haven't we been over this?"

"…. _Yao-san…Yao-nii…China…are you saying that…"_

"Of course, aru!" purred Yao, stretching and flexing his hand. "The game's begun again, Japan. This boring world just got better."

_I knew he wasn't done._ Thought Yao inwardly, a morbid smirk on his face as his eyes darkened.  _He's like a cockroach. A silly little cockroach. And yet…_

Yao sighed, tilting his head slightly and smiling wearily.

… _That cockroach is the only thing in this world that can keep me amused. It's a good thing neither of us can die, isn't it? We can keep this game going forever._

Yao snapped the phone shut, abruptly cutting off his conversation with Kiku. He walked a few steps, a serene smile on his face, before stopping in the center of the room and looking up at the ceiling.

_The first move was yours, England. You started the new round,_ he thought with a grin.

_Don't disappoint me._

**Moscow, Russia- January 2012**

There are many different types of silence.

There is the soft silence of a moonlit night, when the entire Earth is asleep and the only sound is the near noiseless whisper of the evening breeze.

There is the busy silence, of a calm summer day, where the hush is tampered by the almost imperceptible sounds of nature. Which, while quiet, are numerous.

There is the eerie silence of a dark forest, of a time or place where the lack of sound only means the lack of warning, the lack of knowledge of what is going on, the lack of awareness of potential danger. The silence that is a harbinger doom.

And then there is the loud silence. The silence that is so noiseless, so stifling, that you can hear the blood pounding in your ears, the constant thrum of your steadily quickening heartbeat, and the harsh, ominous pressure that grows greater and greater as the silence thickens and no noise dares disturbs it.

Toris swallowed and loosened his collar, feeling increasingly uncomfortable and hot in the loud silence that had descended upon the room. Beside him, a young teenager with tousled blonde hair- Raivis was his name -fidgeted uncomfortably, casting nervous glances and shivering. Next to Raivis was an intelligent looking man with glasses who was furiously working away on his smartphone. Toris knew him as Estonia. He didn't work enough with the man to know him personally or by anything other than his codename. He didn't work very much with Raivis either, but, like himself, the teenager was often kept close to the boss, and the two of them were around each other enough to have learned each other’s real names.

On the other side of the table sat two women. Toris knew them as Ukraine and Belarus, sisters of 'the boss.' They all shared the unique white-blonde hair and rather imposing presence. Even Ukraine, who never hesitated to give Toris a warm smile when she saw him, was menacing in her own way. Because Toris had seen her wear that same soft, semi-apologetic smile while assembling a semi-automatic.

Then there was himself, Toris Laurinaitas. Known here as Lithuania.

He'd been given that name five years ago, when he had first joined this odd little group. 'A group for reform, change, and the greater good.' That was what it had been called. Toris could still remember the excitement he had felt when he had received an email, an  _actual, direct,_ email, from the one known as 'Mother Russia'. The one whose online articles he had been following for years. The one whose ideas of reforming not only Russia, but his home country Lithuania, Poland, where he had grown up, and all of the surrounding countries, had captivated him and completely changed his life.

He had been ecstatic when he'd been asked to join, even though it meant leaving behind his closest friend and his adoptive family. The chance to change the world! The chance to put all the things he had preached about, all of the things he wanted into practice…

The chance of a lifetime.

And now, five years later…

Toris jumped slightly at the sound of a door opening. Beside him, Raivis jumped even higher and let out a shrill squeak. Across the table, Belarus shot them both a look of annoyance. The small teenager recoiled and sank down into the red suit he was wearing, trembling more than ever as tears formed in his eyes. Toris felt a stab of pity for the young boy but was momentarily mesmerized by the way Belarus's blue-violet eyes sparkled in their anger.

As scary as she was, the young woman was quite charming.

The sound of footsteps once again directed Toris's attention to the door at the far side of the room, and his breath caught in his throat as he saw who had entered, the foreboding silence once again falling upon the room and threatening to smother him.

"Ah, the whole family is here, da?" said Russia happily, clasping his gloved hands together. "We can begin immediately then. This is good."

_Begin what?_ Thought Toris, an uncomfortable feeling cumulating in his stomach as he saw the happy light in Russia's purple eyes.  _What exactly is it that you've been preparing for?_

Because five years later, Toris felt as if he didn't know anything anymore. He didn't know what Russia stood for, he didn't know what Russia wanted, and he  _really_ didn't know if the aims of this entire organization were what  _he_  wanted. The ends no longer appeared to justify the means.

And the means were getting progressively worse.

"Little Lithuania, you are listening, da?"

Toris jerked upwards in his seat and felt a cold sweat break out over his body as Russia's chilly, violet eyes centered on him.

"Y-yes, sir!" stammered the brunette, averting his eyes quickly.

He was scared. He was scared of this man. This man whom he had devoted the past five years of his life to. Even more than that, if he counted the years he had religiously followed his articles. Russia terrified him. Even more so due to the fact that the imposing man seemed to truly  _like_ Toris in some strange way.

Which made even  _considering_ leaving that much more impossible.

"That is good~!" said Russia in that happy, singsong tone his voice often took. He walked around the table, bypassing the chair beside Belarus (much to her displeasure) and sitting beside Toris. The Lithuanian swallowed at the sudden mass of warmth by his side and wilted under the jealous glare of the girl across the table.

He should have been used to this routine by now but really, he wasn't.

"As I was saying," continued Russia with a smile, "We have been working hard to help rebuild and reform our dearest country, correct? To try and inform the people of the corruption in the government, to try and rally support against the unjust laws…to try and bring life back to Russia. But, you see, this is completely useless if we don't destroy these problems at their  _root,_ da?”

He paused, and his chilly gaze travelled around the table, meeting each of the assembled ‘family’ in turn. Toris swallowed thickly as Russia’s eyes fell upon him, and struggled not to look away.

After a few seconds, Russia smiled, and turned his head to face forward and to continue speaking.

“I apologize,” he began spreading his arms apologetically, “I have not been completely honest with you. This fight that you have joined me in, it stretches much longer into the past then you could possibly imagine, and involves many countries other than Russia. Our enemy is not just the government, but also the people who wrecked the government in the first place.”

Toris blinked and his eyes flickered around the table to gauge the reaction of the others. Belarus looked unchanged, but Ukraine looked nervous, and Estonia and Latvia both shared the confused expression that Toris assumed was on his own face. No, this wasn’t something that had been discussed with any of them before. The Lithuanian’s stomach churned, and he wondered just how many secrets Russia had been keeping from his beloved ‘family’.

“Two people,” continued Russia, seeming oblivious to the inner conflict of the man sitting beside him, “Just two people who completely destroyed this country. Two untouchable people who have gone through their lives doing whatever they pleased on this Earth, because there was nothing that could  _remove_ them from this Earth. They played their treacherous, destructive games for decades, and only fell silent when it looked like their horrible manipulations were going to be exposed. But now…it looks like they are planning to play again.”

Russia pulled a piece of newspaper out of his coat pocket, humming to himself as he unfolded it slowly. There was a burning intensity in his eyes, different than the usual malicious, or playful light. Whatever secrets the man may have been keeping, whatever games he himself liked to play, he was clearly dead serious now.

With painstaking precision, Russia smoothed out the paper’s edges and laid it flat on the table. Toris leaned over cautiously, and he raised an eyebrow as he saw the emboldened headline.

**_KIRKLAND COMPANY EXPANDS INTO RUSSIA. CAN THE RECOVERING COMPANY SURVIVE SUCH A BOLD MOVE?_ **

"Are you following?" asked Russia suddenly; causing Toris to jump back in surprise. No, he wasn’t following, actually. And he had a horrible feeling deep in his gut. Like he was about to pass the point of now return, and that if he didn’t run now, he would never escape.

"Do you understand?” continued Russia, “I trust you all now, very much. So I am willing to tell you this secret, most important part of our plan. To save our country, we must destroy the people who destroyed it in the first place. And take from them what  _allowed_ them to do such damage. So, my dearest family…" Russia tilted his head to the side, eyes sparkling almost mischievously.

"The time has finally come…" he continued, grin widening.

"For us to secure the secret to immortality."

 //

Chapter 4: Last time you brought me a present, it was a pocketwatch. This...is a bit much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a lot of time to rewrite. I think I did a much better job with Arthur this time around, so I'm quite pleased with this version. 
> 
> Sorry I missed last week's update. I had an essay due the next day so I didn't have the time to reread this chapter before posting. And in the new writing schedule I worked out for keeping up with my stories, I only work on Noise on Mondays. :/


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